


breathe, breathe (your eyes do not deceive you)

by ultalumna (yujael)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Road Trips, except ardyn he creeps me out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 02:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 101,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17819783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujael/pseuds/ultalumna
Summary: Once upon a time, a prince was born amidst a long war which prophecy claimed he was fated to end. However, in an effort to prevent the prophecy from ever coming to light, a man betrayed his kingdom and kidnapped the young prince, and spirited him far away. The king searched far and wide for his son, but the boy was never found.Sixteen years later, rumours reached the kingdom of a young hunter who could use magic, a skill afforded only to the royal family and their servants. Convinced that the hunter was not simply a missing soldier, the king sent two of his most trusted men to find this young hunter and bring the lost prince home.





	1. threads

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to a story that I like to call "funky fun lovin' hunter doesn't know he's a prince until he goes on a road trip with some weirdos who insist he is." Buckle your seat belts because this fic is taking that well-travelled road called "I only have like five solid plot points planned and so whatever it takes to get to them is gonna be a Ride."
> 
> Characters, relationships, and other assorted tags will be added as they're needed. I estimate the plot to be fewer than 20 chapters, but you never know when you're taking the scenic route.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I enjoy thinking about it :D

As the last drops of sunlight fade from the sky, a pair of light feet creeps through the underbrush in sturdy, thick-soled boots. The hunter, fine-boned and lean, dressed in black and blue, blends into the deepening shadows easily, nearly invisible with every step. He doesn’t make a sound.

A stick cracks behind him. He looks carefully over his shoulder at his companion, a scrawnier hunter in all but the arms and dressed much the same. His eyes are hidden behind wide goggles, but his lips move silently. _Sorry._

Another hunter materializes from the darkness to their right, and at her side is a large, pale dog. She exchanges sharp looks with both of them and jerks her head slightly before continuing on. They follow her. Together, they creep alongside the concrete embankment of the river Wennath, hidden by the foliage around them until it gives way to long swathes of farmland. The rows of crops, previously well on their way to a plentiful harvest, are in a sorry state, even in the dark. As they survey what’s left, they watch a small pack of hungry looking beasts prowling through fallen stalks.

The woman turns slightly and signals to a fourth hunter perched on a hill nearby. Then, she whispers, “You stay here, Prompto. Wait until the party starts. Noctis, we’ll circle around. Remember, they’re just hungry beasts. They won’t come back after we herd them away and deal with the daemons. Ready?”

Noctis nods, and a dagger slips from his sleeve to his hand as quick as magic. His other hand digs a flare stick from his belt. Prompto settles closer to the ground on one knee with a rifle in his hands. He looks straight at Noctis through his goggles and nods.

“And this time, Prompto-- _keep your head down_.”

Prompto nods again and brushes his bangs aside after they fall over the front of his goggles. “I gotcha, Vesta.”

Vesta turns away from him and clicks her tongue softly. Her dog’s ears perk up. “Let’s go, Nan.”

Noctis darts from the cover of the treeline to the solid openness of the embankment, quick like the water running dark as ink below him. He cracks the flare stick and it comes to life in a burst of bright red light just as the pack of voreteeth notices Nan, who barks and runs as if to flank them. A couple of them make to run from her in Noctis’ direction, but they stop short when he clicks the flashlight on his vest on and waves the flare stick in a wide arc in front of him, and then they run as a group as Nan herds them out of the crops. They’re hungry, but not desperate enough to put up any kind of real fight. Noctis almost feels sorry for them.

He glances behind him, but he can’t see Prompto anymore. The sun is fully gone for the night, and the moon can’t break away from the clouds long enough for any of its light to catch on Prompto’s fair hair in the bushes. He doesn’t budge from the cover, though, even as Nan herds the voreteeth farther south, back toward their usual hunting grounds, followed by Vesta and Noctis.

Everyone disappears from sight for a brief time as they pass through undamaged crops, but he can still hear Nan loud and clear, as well as whistles here and there from Vesta. The voretooth pack runs and runs, driven from the northern banks of Wennath by three hunters and a dog.

As they reach the edge of the farm, where the plots are entirely unsalvageable, Noctis spots two figures making steady progress up the river along the lower bank. He recognizes the hunters and grimaces when he sees one limping badly. He pauses to crouch before the slope when they get within earshot of each other.

“How’s it looking?” he calls down.

“Clean as clean can get,” the uninjured hunter replies. “That pack shouldn’t have any reason to come crawling back up here anymore.”

Noctis nods before remembering that it’s a little too dark to see such a motion while he has a bright light clipped to his vest. He gestures with his flare stick. “I meant his leg.”

“Oh, shit, yeah. Levy took a bite, so look, if you guys can handle things up there, then don’t worry about it. I just gotta get him back to town. Sound good?”

Noctis checks the farm. The beast pack is on the other side of the crumbling fence now, and Nan is chasing them farther south still. “Yeah, yeah, we’re fine up here. Be careful.”

“We will.”

The hunter shuffles along with his companion dragging one foot alongside him, leaning heavily on the other’s arm for support. Noctis hopes the goblins that have been causing as much trouble as the voreteeth lately show up quickly so that he can take them out and keep the path back to Old Lestallum clear.

“Eyes peeled,” Vesta hisses from the nearby field as Noctis draws away from the slope again. She pulls her phone from her vest pocket with her free hand and dials. “Anything yet? No. Keep an eye out for Claude and Levy coming up the bank, they’re done for tonight. Any daemons pop up to harass them, pick ‘em off. Otherwise, stay put and keep your eyes peeled, and call if you spot daemons.”

Nan comes bounding back to Vesta’s side after a few moments, satisfied that the voreteeth are successfully herded back south. Then, flare sticks fizzling out, they settle into a round of the waiting game. Noctis drifts from one yawn to the next, watching with tiring eyes as the stars peek out from between one cloud and the next. He’s in the middle of wondering what Prompto is doing when Vesta’s phone buzzes in her pocket.

“Yeah, go. Got it.” She shoves it back into the inner pocket of her vest and gestures at Noctis. “Lowell’s catching movement, c’mon.”

“Any word from Prompto?” Noctis asks as they jog back upriver.

“Right where we left him, should be. I don’t think there’s line of sight on either end, though, so if we can’t herd the monsters his way then he’ll just have to--” A great echoing  _crack_ cuts her off. Prompto’s rifle. Vesta begins to run. “Pick it up, pick it up!”

Noctis doesn’t need to be told twice--or even once. A second shot rings out as they run back along the embankment.

There are at least half a dozen goblins scurrying around the half-ruined crops when they arrive. One more tumbles out of its hiding place with Nan hot on its heels. Lowell, the last hunter running with them tonight, has come down from the hills to swipe at the group of grotesque limbs and twisted faces with a lance. It’s all exactly as they’d hoped for, except for the part where Prompto is now pinned between the goblins and the slope of the embankment. His rifle is slung across his back now and he’s aiming a pistol at the constantly shifting group of daemons with grit teeth.

Noctis spots a goblin readying for a leap in Prompto’s direction and he feels a flicker of white heat and icy cold in his bones, the way he always does when he’s about to blink across a distance faster than his own body should be able to move. He throws his dagger with expert precision, and for a split second, he feels nothing but lightning in his fingertips and wind in his veins. The dagger strikes true, embedded in the goblin’s torso, and Noctis is on top of it in the next instant, driving the blade deeper and twisting until the unsettling red glow in its chest fades out. Not a moment later, a sharp pain flares in the side of his head and spreads to his temple, and he bites back a wince. The cascade of blue sparks that always scatters into the air after the blink draws the attention of another goblin, and Noctis has to be ready for it. He knows Prompto is, too.

“Right on time, buddy!” Prompto says from behind him before firing on the daemon. It staggers and shrieks, but the rivulet of black blood that runs down from its shoulder isn’t enough to stop it from lunging at Noctis.

“I knew I’d have to save your ass at least once tonight,” Noctis replies after easily parrying the blow and striking back. There’s no bite to the words. “It’s been too long.”

Prompto laughs and shoots at a goblin that had been mid-jump on Noctis’ left. “Time for me to repay the favour, then.”

“Runner,” Vesta yells from the right. Nan bolts after the escaping goblin, driving it from the crops again and onto the embankment, where Prompto fires at it until it crumbles in on itself. From then on, they make quick work of the goblins between Noctis’ dagger, Prompto’s gun, Vesta’s broadsword, and Lowell’s lance.

“Good huntin’, boys,” Vesta says as they catch their breath. “Farm’s gonna be a sore sight in the morning, though. Damn.”

“Tell you what,” Lowell says, lighting a cigarette, “there’s been more of them every week. Festival of the Hunt can’t come soon enough.”

“Tell me about it,” Vesta sighs. She reaches down to scratch behind Nan’s ears. After, Nan approaches Noctis and Prompto for more of the same treatment, which Prompto is all too glad to provide after he pushes his goggles up to rest on his forehead.

“Who’s a good hunter?” Prompto coos, leaning in until he’s practically nose to nose with Nan while he digs both hands into her thick fur. “Who’s the _best_ hunter?” He leans back. “Psych! Me and Noct are gonna blow you out of the water this year, yes we are!”

“Please don’t talk like that if you’re referring to us,” Noctis says dryly. When Prompto doesn’t appear to listen, Noctis nudges him, yawning. “Come on, let’s get going. If we get back soon enough, there might still be a rerun of that autobiography documentary thing you wanted to watch.”

Prompto rises back to his feet and stretches one hand above his head, rubbing his eyes with the other. “Man, I’m beat, though. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay awake.”

“You’re tired?” Noctis retorts. “You weren’t the one running anywhere.”

“Not the one swinging a sword around, either,” Vesta adds, pressing her hands into their backs. “Come on, pick your feet up, boys. Lowell’s gonna leave us in the dust and get all the reward money for himself.”

That spurs Prompto into motion, and they begin the trek back too Old Lestallum. Noctis tries to match pace with him, but Prompto always manages to stay one step ahead of him with hardly a stitch in his side, laughing all the way back to the bright lights of town.

By the time they sort out their business at the Crow’s Nest diner, crossing the goblins off the list of several other problems plaguing the region at night, and divvying up the reward, Noctis’ headache has faded completely and he feels like he could flop onto a bed and fall asleep faster than it would take him to blink across a room.

 

\--

 

In the dream, he is alone in a forest, surrounded by countless trees that are as wide as a small building, and so tall that he cannot make out any foliage through the soft mist that hangs in the air around him. He climbs over and under roots thicker than his own body, following a bright light peeking between the trees.

He follows the light for what feels like hours. It never seems to come any closer. When he calls out, nobody answers.  

The forest grows dark, and his eyes grow heavy, and only then does he come across a giant, empty pedestal made of ancient, cracked marble. There is a plaque on one side, but the forest is so dark by the time he reaches it that he cannot tell if there are any words left at all on it.

He hears his name, behind him, echoing in the dark. Again, and again.

But he’s so tired now that he cannot answer.

 

\--

 

“Noct, c’mon, man. I’m hungry.”

Noctis grumbles and rolls over, away from the hands on his shoulder and the whining from above him. He can see by the faint red behind his eyelids that the sun has come up. Probably a while ago, too. “Your turn to make breakfast.”

“No way!” Prompto says. Noctis hears his socked feet on the wood floor as he circles around to the other side of Noctis’ bed. He shakes Noctis’ shoulder again. “I made breakfast yesterday. _And_ I set the table, too. Yesterday  _and_ today. It’s your turn to make food. Feed me.”

Noctis groans into his pillow. He can’t call Prompto a liar because there are pictures of the store bought waffles covered in fruit and syrup that Prompto put together on his camera. Deleting them to advance his argument would involve more effort than making breakfast. He swats blindly at Prompto. “Fine, fine. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“I’m watching the clock,” Prompto says as he drifts away from the bed.

When Noctis finally rises out of bed, Prompto is sprawled across the sofa against the opposite wall with his phone, already fully dressed, and the small table in the kitchenette is indeed prepared for breakfast.

They don’t have much in the way of breakfast. They’d only packed to stay in Old Lestallum for a few days, hoping to be able to return to Lestallum proper quickly. Noctis is glad that they had indeed managed to wrap the hunt up quickly, too, because their stock of food has dwindled to nothing but a single packet of toaster ready pastries and two frozen waffles. Noctis looks over his shoulder at Prompto, who is holding his phone against his nose and watching Noctis from over the edge of it with a hopeful smile.

“Moocher,” Noctis deadpans, shutting the fridge door.

Prompto wriggles in his seat. “It’s payday, Noct! Let’s go get something nice.”

The only “nice” place in town that’s nearby and doesn’t sell food that they’d just have to come back and prepare is the Crow’s Nest across the street.

“You’re gonna get fat.”

“I’ve been on a run today,” Prompto says dismissively. “You know you want it, Noct. All day breakfast… egg sandwich, extra bacon…”

Noctis tosses one of the paper plates on the table at him like a frisbee, and it nearly makes it to Prompto’s head before he catches it out of the air just in time. “Fine, but you have to buy the gas.”

“Heck yeah!” Prompto jumps to his feet and presses a wet kiss against Noctis’ cheek. “It’s a deal. Let’s get going.”

They pack their things up before they leave, balling up their dirty clothes in the bottom of their bags and stowing the last toaster snacks at the top of Noctis’. When they step outside into the mid-morning sun, Noctis can see a couple vehicles belonging to the other hunters, but not Vesta’s, and Prompto briefly laments not being able to pet the dog again.

The Crow’s Nest across the street, the very first of its kind as the posters proudly say, is very busy at this hour, packed with regulars and tourists. Prompto manages to get them to the counter quickly with a bit of help from his boney elbow, but neither of them is rude enough to steal a table from under someone else’s nose. Noctis thinks his parents would rise from the grave and haunt him for life if he tried.

Instead, they take their sandwiches wrapped in a paper bag and cross the street again, heading back to their car. It’s a smooth, black Vixen model that probably saw its heyday a decade ago, bought second hand but maintained as well as their budget allows. It’s also technically Noctis’ car since he’s the better driver and they got it mostly with his money, but the pictures taped to the dashboard and slotted between the seats are much a claim as the keys in Noctis’ hand.

They sit in the back seat, both taking a side and sitting with their legs hanging out the open doors. Noctis turns the car on to get the radio started, and then they sit back and enjoy a slightly too greasy breakfast. Prompto tosses bits out for the birds hanging around both the motel and diner parking lots and takes pictures of them when they start fighting each other.

Between the sounds of the birds and the traffic, Noctis almost misses the radio host speaking between one song and the next. His hearing perks up when he catches up to what the host is saying, and he immediately leans back and slaps Prompto on the back.

“Hey, what--”

Noctis shushes him. “Listen for a second.”

Prompto leans into the back seat as well. From the front of the car, the radio hosts’ voice continues with a little static.

“--hearing things like terms for a ceasefire or some kind of treaty, but who knows? Word of an approaching ambassador’s visit from Niflheim has only just left the capital city of Insomnia. Our sister station on 87.6 has all the current details and more, and if you want in on the conversation you can give them a call at--”

Noctis turns the radio down, and the car is silent for a moment.

“Dude,” Prompto says slowly. “Were they really talking about a ceasefire?”

Noctis thinks about switching to that other station, just to be sure. “They said there might be. There’s definitely going to be a talk by the sound of it, though. Unless the static was jumbling it.”

“No way, I definitely heard it.” Prompto stares as Noctis, his face oddly blank, which seems like a good way to explain how Noctis feels, too. Kind of empty, kind of hopeful. “That’s what they said, right? An ambassador coming around means talks.”

“Maybe.” Noctis doesn’t know if he can say definitely again. A ceasefire means something other than a war in the future, but he’s lived his whole life with the fighting always in the background. The idea of there being another way of life is foreign, almost like a myth he was supposed to stop believing in when he grew up.

And besides. Niflheim ambassadors have come to Lucis before. They’ve gone to Insomnia, the untouchable city. He’s seen them in _Lestallum_ , too. There was never a ceasefire then, and the fighting has always been worse, after.

The light feeling in his gut disappears, weighed down by the heavy facts. It’s just another talk that’s likely to fail. He says as much to Prompto.

“Maybe,” Prompto murmurs. He reaches over and wraps an arm around Noctis’ shoulder, leaning heavily to support himself, but also for the hug. “You can leave the hoping to me if you want.”

Noctis sighs and buries his nose in Prompto’s fluffy hair, letting it muffle his voice. “I could. You never let me down.” And he doesn’t. Prompto keeps finding ways to be the brightest thing around, to be an uplifting force with sheer determination and lively energy. If Noctis left all the heavy work to him, though, he’d burn out like a star. “I won’t, though. Maybe it’ll be different this time, you never know.”

“I hope it stops the war,” Prompto says wistfully. “You know what I’d do? Insomnia’s dumb and doesn’t let refugees in most of the time, or like hardly anyone else, but that could change after, right? We could drive all the way there, like a real road trip--”

“You’d be the worst kind of tourist,” Noctis interjects, laughing softly. “The kind that everyone hates walking behind because they’re always taking pictures.”

“It’s the _Crown City_!” Prompto exclaims. He finally lets go of Noctis’ shoulder. “City of technological  _wonders_ , Noct. Think about it!”

“Oh, yeah. It’d be paradise for a technophile like you.”

“Just to see it once--”

“Just once?”

“I shouldn’t push my luck, y’know? And besides, Lestallum is home.”

“That’s true. You can’t fish in the city, either.” He’s pretty sure, at least. It’s hard to imagine a city hiding behind a giant wall as one that’s rich in watering holes. Noctis picks up their empty wrappers and balls them up with the paper bag. “Come on. Let’s fill the tank up and hit the road.”

The city of Lestallum is just over two hours away. It’s a long enough drive that Prompto declares that he’s getting a bag of chips from the store when he goes inside to pay for gas, something to tide them over to their next meal when they get home. Noctis plays on his phone while he waits. He sees a flash of white in his peripheral vision and glances up automatically, but he loses interest as quickly as it had come when he only sees a man with a Kenny Crow hat standing on the other side of the parking lot, taking pictures of the diner across the street.

Prompto bounces back to the car with two bags of chips not a moment later, and Noctis puts the tourist out of his mind with his phone.

 

\--

 

When Gladiolus steps into the conference room just two paces after Ignis and shuts the door behind them, he sees two things he did not expect. First; the only other people in the room other than himself and Ignis are the King and his Shield. There is no one else filling the other dozen seats at the polished table. Second, and perhaps even more oddly; his father is looking at Gladio with a quirk in his lips, like it’s two days from his birthday and Clarus has gotten wind of a surprise on the same day.

King Regis, looking tired but happy, gestures with his hand, and Gladio and Ignis approach the head of the table. There are papers and photographs spread out in front of him. Gladio glances at them, but doesn’t scrutinize them from the corner of his eye as he cannot doubt Ignis is doing.

“There is news,” Regis begins, quiet but firm. “News that I do not dare speak outside this room until the day is not quite so treacherous. We speak in the utmost secrecy.”

“I swear it,” Ignis answers immediately, his voice little more than a whisper. Gladio echoes him.

Regis nods. He lifts a hand as if to pick up one of the photos on the table, but then he clasps both hands before him.

“The Kingsglaive has been bringing rumours to me, these recent months,” he says. “They’ve heard of a hunter in the west who uses magic, and elemancy, quite like them.”

“A defector?” Ignis asks. Gladio frowns but doesn’t agree. Something like that wouldn’t fall to them. A defector wouldn’t create an atmosphere like this.

Regis shakes his head, confirming it. “No. Their ability to use my magic would be lost to them, were that the case. No… Take a look at this picture.”

He slides a picture across the table toward them. It’s an old one, judging by the type of paper used, the slight yellowing of its surface. It’s of a young man sitting for a portrait, dark hair and fine features all decked out in royal finery.

“Isn’t that you, Your Majesty?” Gladio asks.

King Regis nods once. “Yes, in an age past. My hair is not quite so dark, now… Yet, here.”

He positions another photograph beside the portrait. It looks candid in every way possible. The same young man is hauling a duffel bag over his shoulder, dressed in clean yet wrinkled clothes. His hair is slightly longer and tied up, and his bangs are a mess. He’s looking at something off to the right, and from that same side, there’s a pale, disembodied arm about to come down on his shoulder.

“Is this before the royal hairdresser got to you?” Gladio shifts as Ignis’ heel comes down on his toe. “No disrespect meant.”

“That is not me,” Regis replies simply. He lets the words hang in the silence that fills the room.

Ignis leans closer and looks at the other pictures scattered on the table, and Gladio blinks at them over his shoulder. There’s another old picture of the king as a well-groomed man standing next to his custom car, the Regalia. All around it are more shots of the young man with messy hair and clothes--him tossing the duffel into an ancient black car, him ducking out of a crowded diner, shoulder to shoulder with a blond haired man, and him sitting in the driver’s seat of the black car at a gas station, head tilted down but eyes looking almost directly back at the camera.

Ignis’ breath catches. Something twists in Gladio’s gut and his shoulders tense. He looks up at his father, who has that same strange expression on his face. He doesn’t dare ask just yet.

“Is that…” Ignis trails off before he can even get started.

“It’s not Regis,” Clarus repeats. “And it’s not his twin from thirty-five years ago. These pictures were taken eight days ago.”

King Regis leans forward and holds his hands against his brow as if in prayer. “His name is Noctis.”

“Prince Noctis,” Ignis breathes. “It must be. He’s… _alive_.”

Regis takes another picture from the table, holding it like something coveted. It’s another old one. Sixteen years past. Gladio knows because he recognizes the young child in it. He even remembers standing near the child, scraps of moments from when Gladio himself was only seven years old.

Prince Noctis was four years old on the night he was last seen alive within the city of Insomnia. The Citadel has never been the same since that night. Security protocols had been overhauled, and as the years passed and the prince was never found, the city mourned. And the entire time, Gladio, having only recently begun to learn what his duty would be and how he would accomplish it, felt the sting and burn of failure in waves that constantly threatened to suffocate him.

Sixteen years later, his father, King Regis’ Shield, is standing on the other side of the table, looking at him with pride and hope.

“My son is alive,” King Regis says. He sets the photo down with care. His voice takes a harder edge as he continues. “I have no doubt of this. But now, with this kingdom’s relationship with the empire about to change--this, too, is also doubtless--we are brought to a precarious position. A dangerous one.”

“The Niffs believe that Noctis is dead, that he was killed almost twenty years ago,” Clarus chimes in. His lips twist a little with bitterness. “As they no doubt intended. When their ambassador arrives, we will enter into negotiations once again. If they to find out that the prince yet lives--and worse, lives outside the Crown City--they would surely attempt to use him at best, or attempt to kill him at worst.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Ignis asks. He sounds ready to take orders already. “Why have we alone been chosen?”

“You met Noctis when you were young, Ignis, yes?” Regis gazes up at Ignis softly. “I introduced you.”

Ignis nods, although it’s more of a jerk of his head. “Yes. Only for a short time.”

Gladio purses his lips a little. Ignis hides it well, but he’d been as broken up about Noctis’ disappearance as everyone else. Gladio mostly remembers a six-year-old kid who found the worst times to lose control of the waterworks.

“I asked something of you then, do you remember?”

“Yes,” Ignis whispers.

“Do you think it still possible to do it?”

Ignis hesitates. He thinks in silence only for a moment, but it’s long enough to have Gladio wondering just what the king had asked of Ignis all those years ago. And then Ignis nods again. “Yes, I think so. I would like to.”

The king turns his gaze to Gladio. “For centuries, House Amicitia has been the Shield of House Caelum. We thought your duty lost to you. Are you prepared now to take up your shield to protect him, to take up your sword to fight for him?”

Gladio knows the answer before he even bothers to think about it. He’s a Shield without a prince, let alone a king. Has been for sixteen years. Instead of the duty and pride of his family passing to him, he’s spent years now doing the next best thing, which is still a far cry from the honour he’d been destined to carry. Protecting ambassadors and diplomats has been all he’s been good for--and even then, he’s mostly been at Ignis’ side as he worked tirelessly within Insomnia. Not that he doesn’t like Ignis, but…

They’re both retainers with no true master. It’s empty work when the shadow of grief hangs over them like a daemon that refuses to die. Until now, anyway.

Gladio nods, his fingers curled tight so that they don’t shake. “Yes. Of course.”

King Regis leans back in his seat and inhales slowly, like a weight has been lifted. He’s still proud, still sharp and powerful, a true king that Gladio is honoured to be in the service of, but in that moment Gladio sees a different man. He doesn’t see the man in the photos. He sees a man, tired of grieving, tired of sitting alone in a throne room. An old man who just wants to see his son again.

“There is still much to discuss,” King Regis says. “But your mission is this--find my son, and bring him home safely.”

 

\--

 

The sound of the car doors slamming shut echoes in the underground parking lot, bouncing off stone pillars and the half dozen other cars in King Regis’ fleet. There’s no one else in the spacious lot, and for a half second, it feels like no one is in the car, either.

Gladio feels along the front of his seat until he finds the lever to push the seat back, granting himself some much-needed leg room. Next to him, Ignis is already buckled into the driver's seat. He sits behind the wheel with a thin black folder in his grip, staring at it like it not only holds the key to the universe, but it’s also withholding it from him.

Gladio has never been one to deal well with others’ emotions. He knows almost every perfect cure for Iris, but she’s his little sister. He can’t just up and press Ignis over his head while detailing how exactly he’s going piledrive the source of his negative emotions. Picking up Ignis? Not hard. Getting Ignis to understand the point of piledriving things that aren’t actually physically able to take a beating? Not likely.

But Ignis will likely come around on his own so long as Gladio keeps his eye on the prize, so to speak.

“So,” he starts, bringing his hands down on his knees, “what’s the plan?”

Ignis blinks and finally reaches over to slip the folder into the glove compartment. “The plan is simple,” he says, putting both hands on the wheel as if he still needs something to hold on to. “We travel to the city of Lestallum, where Prince Noctis was last seen heading toward, we find him, and we escort him back to Insomnia.”

Gladio nods. “Yeah. Simple.” When Ignis doesn’t speak up again after a few seconds, Gladio does. “Any idea where he lives?”

“In Lestallum.”

“I got that.”

Ignis sighs, but he isn't irritated. “I don’t have any other ideas at the moment, unfortunately. All the reports the Glaives gave His Majesty only included places he was rumoured to be, all of which were in regions near Lestallum, or at least no further east than Duscae. That day in Old Lestallum, when they managed to get him in photographs, was the first time they’d actually _seen_ him, if you’ll recall.”

Gladio doesn’t need to reach into the glove compartment for a refresher just yet. “And then they lost him in Lestallum, yep. Big city, huh?”

“Not nearly as large as Insomnia, but yes. It will likely take some time after we get there to find him. And that’s  _if_ he hasn’t already left again. He is a hunter, after all. They move around a lot.”

“If that’s the case, we’ll just have to ask around. Hunters know each other, don’t they? They have a network. Someone will be able to point us in the right direction.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Ignis’ tone has its usual sharpness back, and he finally releases his iron grip on the steering wheel. Gladio pats his own knee for a job well done.

“So, we heading out before next week?”

“Of course,” Ignis says. He takes a set of keys from where they rested on his lap and holds them like a valuable treasure. “But first, ground rules--don’t groan like that. His Majesty is allowing us to use the Regalia for this task, it is the absolute _least_ we can do to see that it returns in the same condition it left in.”

Gladio scoffs. “With you at the wheel, Iggy? There’s literally no chance this baby is coming back to this very spot in anything less than perfect condition.”

“No eating with your hands--”

“Some snacks are finger foods and you can’t avoid that--”

“Drinks must have a cover--”

“My water bottle has a _cap_ , unlike your Ebony--”

“You will not vomit in this car--”

“Why would I vomit with Granny Iggy in the driver’s seat--”

Ignis turns the key and the Regalia  _purrs_ as it comes to life. When Ignis pulls out of the parking space and picks up a little speed, the car hardly makes a sound. He holds the wheel lightly this time, like putting actual pressure on it would cause it to malfunction, or to otherwise lose its magic. He taps his gloved fingers against the wheel as he comes to a full stop before leaving the garage and looks at Gladio with scarcely contained glee.

“ _Granny Iggy_ is not in the driver’s seat, Gladio.”

Gladio buries his face in his hands and groans again. “Ramuh’s beard, Ignis. There better be a rule about keeping it in your pants.”

“Of course, of course. Let’s be off.”


	2. glimpses in lestallum

Morning dawns grey and damp over the rest stop in Alstor. Ignis had spent much of the night before listening to raindrops pattering against the camper that he and Gladio had slept in. The air is cool now that the rain has stopped, but Ignis can feel the humidity rising the moment he steps outside.

Gladio has been up for an hour already, determined to get a jog up and down the road in before they have to get back into the car. Ignis finds him kneeling in the parking lot next to the gas station, greeting a large, enthusiastic shepherd. Its fur is almost entirely the colour of straw, and thick enough that Gladio’s large fingers half disappear in it.

Leaning against a small, round car with peeling red paint is a woman with ash brown hair tied up under a cap. She’s wearing a partially zipped sweater over a dark vest that Ignis has come to associate with the hunters that they’ve passed by on their way here. She’s also watching Gladio and the dog with her arms cross and a friendly smile on her face, which makes her ownership of the dog all the more likely.

“Hey, Ignis.” Gladio waves him over as the dog licks his chin.

“Making a new friend, are we?” Ignis asks. The dog begins ignoring Gladio’s attention in favour of sniffing Ignis’ pant leg.

“Yeah, I was just having a chat with these two fine ladies. Hunters, both of them. They know the area pretty well.”

“Vesta,” the woman says with a brief wave of her fingers before she tucks them back under her arm. “That’s Nan. She won’t bite ’cha. Your friend says you’re headin’ to Lestallum, right?”

“A pleasure,” Ignis says, offering Nan a few soft pats on her head. “Yes, that’s correct. You wouldn’t happen to know a few things we should be aware of, would you? This will be the first time we visit the city.”

“Off the top of my head?” Vesta looks the two of them up and down. She doesn’t seem to recognize their Crownsguard fatigues, but she gives Ignis a tilted smile. “It’s hot and windy, so I hope you two have something else to wear. Might roast alive in black on black. It’s the meteor, you know? Keeps this whole region warm, but Lestallum isn’t all that close to water to cool it down. That and the power grid runs on heat.”

“Duly noted,” Ignis says. Most of the clothes they packed are dark, but they’d worn some cooler clothes while in the arid region of Leide, which will hopefully be enough for Lestallum.

“Make sure you have a map, too. A good, up to date one. Lestallum knows when you don’t know her and she can turn you right around on your asses.”

“We got one, don’t we?” Gladio asks as he finally stands up and lets Nan return to her owner’s side.

Ignis nods, although he can’t help but doubt whether or not the map is up to date. They’ve been outside of Insomnia for less than three days and it already seems as if the number of things they weren’t truly prepared for could fill an encyclopedia. Even as they speak, Ignis is trying to determine exactly how long their money will last after they arrive in Lestallum because, unfortunately, they’d woefully misjudged how much gil they would need.

“Even if we need a new one, we plan to spend a fair amount of time exploring the city, anyhow,” he says. “I intend to leave no dish untasted and no corner unturned.” It’s not so far off from the truth.

“Before we hit the road, can I ask you one last thing?” Gladio asks. Ignis can hear him aiming for a casual tone, but perhaps it’s overdone in combination with his sole focus resting on Vesta and also his general shirtlessness.

“About Lestallum or somethin’ else?” Vesta replies, somewhat guarded.

“It’s just you said you’re a hunter, right?” Gladio continues quickly. “We’re actually hoping to find another hunter around these parts. We knew his parents a while back, old family friends, and we thought we’d try and catch up if we could.”

Vesta’s expression softens, and Ignis sighs internally knowing that he doesn’t have to come up with a quick fix. “Hey, I get it. It’s rough out here sometimes; shit happens. Got a name?”

“Kid’s name is Noctis. Dark hair, eyes?”

Ignis sees a spark of what he hopes is recognition in her eyes, and it’s all he can do to maintain a casual stance. He rests one hand on his hip and hopes it isn’t obvious if his knuckles tense.

Vesta nods slowly. “Oh, Noctis, huh? So you guys knew Valya and Roman, too?”

Gladio shoots her a grin and claps his hands as if either of them has ever heard those names before in their lives.

Neither of those is a very common name in Insomnia anymore, Ignis’ memory offers. It continues down a logical avenue--of course, if Noctis is alive and healthy, he had to have been raised by someone. A couple had adopted him at some point and raised him as their own. Ignis is thankful, in a way. Noctis survived due to their actions.

That, however, is followed immediately by a thought that is entirely unhelpful: a couple took Noctis in as a child and raised him as their own, thereby erasing the knowledge of his own blood and his true family. Noctis, having no memory of his previous life, never tried to return, even as an adult.

Kidnapping is a traumatic experience, his logical side provides. Whatever transpired after the initial event had surely also been traumatic. He should not be surprised if Noctis truly doesn’t remember.

“I can’t believe how lucky we are, eh, Ignis?” Gladio asks, drawing Ignis from his thoughts with a light slap on his shoulder. He turns back to Vesta as Ignis scrambles silently to piece together what he missed. “You mean it? He’s still there?”

Vesta shrugs. “He moved after Valya and Roman… you know, all that.”

Gladio nods, sympathy in his eyes. “Yeah, of course.”

“But yeah, he still lives in the city and works when he’s not hunting as far as I know. Don’t see him much anymore, to be honest with ya. Friend of the parents more than the kid, I guess.”

“I’m sure he thinks nothing of it,” Ignis chimes in. At the very least, he hopes so. He has no idea the type of man Noctis has grown into. “Knowing you’re well is likely its own comfort.”

Vesta still seems somewhat contrite; she holds it in the low slope of her shoulders and the downward tug in one corner of her mouth even as the other side is curled upward. “Maybe. Anyway, sorry that I can’t help more. Maybe you can ask around Lestallum.”

“We’ll be sure to do that,” Ignis assures her.

“Yeah, and don’t worry about it,” Gladio adds. “We already have more than we hoped for. It’s been great talking to you.” He leans down to scratch behind Nan’s ear again. “And you, too.”

They part ways. Ignis hears Vesta letting Nan climb into her car as he and Gladio walk to the Regalia, shoulders nearly bumping. As soon as they shut the car doors, the car falls into a deafening silence for a full two seconds.

Gladio blows out a slow, ragged breath that grows into a deep chuckle. “I mean, _seriously_ ,” he starts. “Talk about luck. She knew him right off the bat. Hunted with him, even. Saw him less than _two weeks_ ago, Iggy.”

Ah, so he’d missed that much. “Yes, we are incredibly fortunate to have been able to speak with her. He lives in Lestallum, that much is certain now.”

“Now we just have to find a needle in a haystack.” Gladio pops the glove compartment open and pulls out a tourism pamphlet they’d picked up in Hammerhead the day before. “That’s not gonna be easy, even if we find someone else who just so happens to know him. I’ve got two inches of map around a fancy restaurant on the back of this, and it’s a maze. And it’s nothing compared to the actual map--which _is_ up to date, right?”

“It might do us well to buy one when we arrive, just to be safe.”

“So, you don’t know.”

Ignis is, in fact, almost certain that their current map is inadequate, but he’ll buy four more if that’s what he needs to do.

“Information like this is a little out of date in general within the Crown City, wouldn’t you agree?”

Gladio scoffs under his breath and tosses the pamphlet back into the glove compartment before sitting back in his seat. “Yeah, no kidding.”

“Let’s not worry overmuch,” Ignis says. “I’ve no intention of failing just because I couldn’t immediately find my way through an unfamiliar city.”

There are, currently, very few possibilities that Ignis will allow to cause him to fail in this, and getting lost is certainly not one of them. The very thought is inconceivable.

For nearly three days, he has chased himself around in circles, running a proverbial trench in the carpet. The reminder that Noctis is alive has repeatedly been followed immediately by the gut-wrenching thought that he has been alone for the past sixteen years. That he believed such a life to be his lot in the world. The thought persists like an intruder he cannot lock out, even though he knows it to be false.

Noctis has had companions. He had presumably grown up with a family. Vesta had provided names. The photos clipped together in the report folder tucked in the glove compartment depict him twice alongside another hunter with whom he seemed to display camaraderie. He is not alone.

And yet, Ignis persists against himself.

 

\--

 

Two hours later, Lestallum sprawls across the horizon on the western edge of the great Taelpar Crag. It’s no Insomnia, even as they get closer and closer. No skyscrapers, no train rails, no central highways. Gladio can see the life of it from a distance, though. The unfamiliar architecture painted all in bright colours, full of as much active traffic as Insomnia. In the heart of it, he can see a giant structure which must be the power station that supplies the city and much of the region with lights.

While Ignis is steering them at a crawl through the busy streets, Gladio is torn between watching the sights as they pass by--the people, the food carts, the signs, _the Cup Noodles truck_ \--and squinting at the map in his lap, trying to direct Ignis to a hotel.

It’s slow going. A lot more people have bicycles here than they did in Insomnia, and now he knows why; most of the turns on the map that would get them closer to the Lestallum Leville, where their reservation is, are marked with signs forbidding vehicle traffic. Other signs point the way to various parking lots, and Gladio’s pretty sure that Ignis is exercising a monumental amount of restraint to not steal the map from Gladio in order to find one himself.

“It’s a bit of a walk to get to the Leville, but there’s a parking lot next to one of the lookout terraces that’s pretty easy to get to,” Gladio says, pointing the lot out on the map. He squints through the glare of the sun on the dashboard, searching for the ramp that’s supposed to be nearby. “There, you gotta make a left.”

Ignis makes the turn with a relieved sound. The noise of the road falls away slightly as they descend, becoming a jumble of voices and horns carried on the wind. The parking lot is butt up against a viewing terrace, and for the briefest moment, Gladio sets his sights on the massive meteor rising out of Cauthess--not even for the first time--and he forgets that there is a reason he’s seeing it at all.

In Duscae, they’d both seen the meteor with their own eyes for the first time. The sky was dark in the afternoon, though, and rain was falling in a downpour. The meteor had looked like a sad pillar in the fog. The sky is now stunningly clear, though, and there are entire facets shining so bright under the sun that he can’t even look directly at them. It’s beautiful, and Insomnia has nothing like it.

Reality comes crashing back with a jolt--a literal jolt that throws Gladio forward just to meet the resistance of his seat belt when Ignis stops the car suddenly. They haven’t even cleared the ramp entirely.

Frozen only a scant foot away from the hood of the Regalia is a pedestrian on a bicycle, one that neither Gladio nor Ignis had seen until they’d both come to a screeching halt. Gladio is about to cuss them out on reflex--as if he hasn’t dealt with this enough back home--but then Ignis sucks in a breath so harsh it sounds like he’s breathing through a cheese grater, and Gladio really  _looks_.

The man is wearing a white t-shirt with a jacket tied tight around his waist. His black hair is buried under a cap that shades his eyes, a few strands escaping around his face. And Gladio, having looked at it in pictures for three days, would recognize his face anywhere.

One of Noctis’ gloved hands reaches back to adjust a satchel on his back that had jarred out of position when he’d stopped. The other is tight on the handlebar of his bicycle as he carefully guides it away from the front of the Regalia with his toes. He stares at the occupants behind the windshield, looking more annoyed than anything, like almost getting hit by a car is something bothersome that happens every other day for him. Certainly not shell-shocked, like Gladio imagines Ignis feels. A car honks behind them, and he rides away in earnest without another look.

“Quick, Gladio,” Ignis hisses as he inches the car forward again. “There are vehicles behind me, I can’t stop. Where is he going?”

Gladio sits up as tall as he can manage to see over the cars and pedestrians in the lot and catches Noctis cycling up another ramp out of the parking lot, weaving expertly through the masses. From there, Gladio can only keep track of him from the way other people shift to get out of his path. “He’s leaving the lot,” he reports. He curses as he settles back into his seat. “I’m not gonna be able to catch up to him through traffic, but I think he’s crossing the road.”

Ignis remains silent as he parks the Regalia without further incident. Gladio can practically hear the crinkling of his gloves as his hands grip the steering wheel like it alone stands between them and a quick and painful death at the bottom of the crag. He parks, raises the top so that the car will be secure when they get out of it--after Gladio’s legs hopefully unlock within the next few moments--and then leans forward until his forehead meets the wheel.

Silence. Gladio thinks he can feel a charge in the air, though. The energy that shot through his veins when he thought they might get in an accident still needs an outlet, and he lets it run where it will until a laugh bubbles up from his chest.

“Well, that was something.”

Ignis sits up and gives him an exasperated look over the rims of his glasses. “Are you, perhaps, referring to the moment where I very nearly ran the _crown prince_ over with his father’s car?”

“Iggy, I’m pretty sure he’d have equal fault for that if it had turned into an accident. He came outta your blind spot. That happens all the time.” Gladio reaches over to grip Ignis’ shoulder, which is steady through what seems to be nothing but immense tension. “Besides, silver lining--he’s definitely in the city. This might be easier than we first thought.”

“Mind you don’t challenge fate,” Ignis sighs. The tension drains out in slow stages. Eventually, he says quietly, “You’re correct, though. We have more information yet. He is somewhere in the city. He has a blue and white cap. The satchel had pins that I’m sure I could recognize again. The bicycle was blue and black, and I’m almost certain the spokes were decorated with something.”

Gladio hadn’t noticed half of that, but he’s glad Ignis did in the short time Noctis had been right in front of them. Just. _Right there_. “Think he’ll recognize us?”

Ignis stares out the windshield solemnly. Gladio knows he’s misunderstood the question before he even speaks. “No,” he says. There’s no easy way to categorize his tone into any single emotion. “No, I doubt it. I had wondered, but I think it extremely unlikely that he remembers anything. We must be careful in how we approach him.”

“I meant--”

“I know what you meant.” Ignis gestures at the empty space in front of the car, like Noctis could still be right there. “You saw his face, yes? Someone nearly ran him over--someone who is so painfully obviously looked like a tourist, at that--and he didn’t bat an eye. As you said, this happens on a regular basis. The Regalia might remain for some time, seeing as it’s the only one of its kind in the city, but we’ll have faded from memory by tomorrow morning if we haven’t already.”

Gladio can’t disagree with that, and so he lets the silence fall again, like a comforter fit for winter--way too heavy for the climate they’re in now, but remaining all the same because they don’t have anything better to replace it with.

Ignis is right. If Noctis remembered anything, he’d have shown it. He probably wouldn’t recognize his Shield anymore, not with his size and tattoos and, well, everything, but he’d have recognized the Regalia. They’re going to have to start from square one. Convince a prince that he’s a prince, that he needs to come home. That his real family misses him.

But before all that, they have to find a way to get a foot in the door. Preferably without the assistance of the Regalia's hood.

“Let’s find the hotel and check in,” Ignis says finally. “We need to familiarize ourselves with the city before we do anything else, I think.”

 

\--

 

Prompto registers an ache in his back when he hears a door open and shut behind him, accompanied by Noctis announcing tiredly, “I’m back.”

Rather, he notices it again--an hour in, he’d ignored it in favour of hunching over the desk like a crippled hobgoblin. Now, another couple hours later, it’s come back, jabbing even more persistently at his right shoulder, and he relents. He doesn’t quite have what he wants from his last shot of Lestallum’s newest park, but the longer he spends stretching his arms up over his head, back arching, the less he wants to dive back into the editing software.

It’s not like the editors notice much when he sends them less than perfect shot, anyway.

He can hear Noctis in the foyer around the corner, and he watches the doorway to the hall until Noctis passes by it, shucking his jacket and satchel off as he goes. He glances Prompto’s way in the middle of a yawn and disappears down the hall.

“Sitting around all day?” he calls jokingly from what Prompto is sure is the washroom. He hears water running for a few seconds and then Noctis is back with a damp face.

“Welcome back. You look beat,” Prompto answers.

Noctis pulls his hat off with a groan and drapes himself over the back of the sofa. “Dolly’s gonna work me to the bone. Something about me slacking off.”

“Oh, yeah, for  _days_ , even. Always leaving the city for this and that.” Prompto slides out of his chair and onto the sofa where Noctis can see him. “She’s gotta work you good before you take off again tomorrow. You’re all done now, though, right?”

“Mhm.” Noctis lifts his face from the back of the sofa to stare down at Prompto, quietly pleading. “Is there food?”

Prompto thinks about his aching shoulder--and his aching belly, now that he’s paying attention--and shakes his head. It’s not quite dinner time, but he doesn’t remember eating lunch, and he also hasn’t started preparing anything for dinner, even though it’s his turn. “ _But_ ,” he says hastily before Noctis can whine about it, “by the time you take a shower, there totally will be.”   

Noctis straightens up and fans himself with his hat. “I’ll give you an extra five minutes--no, ten. I’m so sticky.”

“Yeah, you’re kinda gross,” Prompto says. He pokes Noctis’ side through his shirt, snickering. It’s a little damp, but not wet like the back is. Noctis’ skin is also covered in a sheen of sweat all over, and tinged with pink even though he slathered on sunscreen before leaving. His hair sticks to his forehead and neck where it isn’t tied up, and the locks that are tied up are limp from being stuck under a hat for most of the day. “You stink, too.” Like old sunscreen, sweat, and the shop he runs deliveries for on his bike.

“I’ve smelled worse. I could be covered in mud.” Noctis leans down again. “C’mere.”

“No,” Prompto says, pushing him away with a hand on his face. When Noctis persists, Prompto rolls off the couch, laughing. “No, you stink! Go take a shower!”

“I don’t even have daemon guts on me,” Noctis retorts. Prompto yelps as he uses some hidden well of strength to climb over the sofa and tackle him. His whole body feels like a hot plate on Prompto’s cooler skin. “This is just work sweat. Every day sweat. Come on.”

“No,” Prompto says again. He’s already cracking though, even before Noctis’ fingers start digging into his sides. “No-- _food_ , Noct! I gotta make--aha! Go take a shower--”

“I kinda want some of those skewers at the plaza,” Noctis says conversationally, like he isn’t forcing Prompto to slowly crumple to the floor, to lose his breath and die by tickling. He relents when he has Prompto hunched over his own knees. “We should go get some. What do you think?”

“So you don’t want me to make food?” Prompto gasps, wriggling around to face Noctis. He’s tense with anticipation, trying to figure out when Noctis will strike again. Above him, Noctis’ expression is almost maddeningly cool. The only thing that really betrays him is how narrow his eyes are, all the full force of his smile poorly contained in them.

“You’ve been working on the pictures for Vyv all day, haven’t you?” Noctis asks. “Let’s go find a shady table and play King’s Knight.”

“That actually sounds like a good idea--”

Noctis swoops in and steals his kiss. His lips are soft and warm, but the angle is so awkward that Prompto lets himself fall back on his haunches just so he can get his head tilted in a better direction. The second kiss is better, and he can feel Noctis smile into it.

“Missed you,” Noctis murmurs as he pulls away. He steps around the couch instead of climbing over it this time, and then strides out of the room. “I’ll be quick,” he calls back. “Then we can beat the dinner crowd.”

The shower runs for fifteen minutes. When Prompto ducks in to wash his face quickly, he catches Noctis surrounded by heavy steam, pointing the hair dryer directly at his face while he whisper-screams into it like he's some kind of performer. His hair is still damp and somewhat tangled, and water still drips from the ends that brush his shoulder blades. He stumbles a half step away from the counter when he locks eyes with Prompto in the mirror, and then they’re both snorting and laughing.

“Keep your day job,” Prompto tells him.

“You’ll never destroy my dreams,” Noctis says defiantly, although he goes back to using the hair dryer for its intended purpose. He ties his hair back up after and arranges his bangs to his liking around his eyes, but doesn't put his cap back on.

Prompto grabs his wallet and they trot down from the third-floor apartment and out onto the street. Noctis waves to his boss as they pass the hole in the wall shop that stands below the apartments. Dolly, a woman who came away from an injury at the power plant with a permanent hunch, waves back from a comfortable looking seat behind the register.

The sun is starting to get low. It won’t set for at least another couple hours, but the tight streets and alleys that Prompto and Noctis weave through are already thrown into shade. The sky above them is pale blue, and soon it’ll be going on yellow. Prompto is silently glad that he got a new phone a couple months ago, because the light is looking to be perfect by the time they get seated, and his old phone never would have taken nice pictures in it. His camera is still leagues better, but at least with the newer phone, he doesn’t feel like tearing his hair out every time he wants to take a quick picture.

The fountain plaza is between their apartment and Lestallum’s famous marketplace, and it has everything they could ask for when they don’t want to cook, which is… pretty often. The air smells good no matter which end Prompto stands at, and he can never get enough pictures of the activity all around him, or the buildings, or the fountain.

He’s a little sad he didn’t bring his camera, but doubly glad that his new phone takes nice pictures.

The fountain standing in the center of the plaza doesn’t have all of its jets running. It only has one running from its central basin, spraying water high into the air so that it falls like rain into the lowest, shallowest basin, where kids are splashing away the heat of the day.

Noctis grabs Prompto’s hand and then winds their arms together as he leads the way to one of their favourite tables. It has a bright yellow umbrella that gives the checkered table shade from the sun that manages to get into the plaza, and there’s always a cart nearby that sells their favourite spicy skewers.

“And--ours!” Prompto declares as they all but dive onto the chairs. He peeks into his wallet to double check, belatedly, that he has enough gil stashed away, and then stands up again. “Okay,  we got skewers comin’ right up. What about drinks? Also, I’m totally getting ice cream later. Even inside, it was boiling today.”

“Sweltering,” Noctis moans, practically melting into his chair. He waves a hand dismissively. “Surprise me.”

“Gotcha.” Prompto turns on his heel.

“And whatever it is, make it a large!” Noctis calls before Prompto can get too far away. “I’m dying of thirst here!”

Prompto returns only a few minutes later, arms laden with a basket of skewers, two bottles of iced tea, and one giant water bottle, which he knows Noctis will try to chug half of right off the bat because of his sheer thirst. He says as much when he has everything arranged on the table, but Noctis doesn’t reply. When Prompto looks away from the table, Noctis is turned halfway in his chair, phone seemingly forgotten in his hand as he squints at something across the plaza.

“What’s up, buddy?” Prompto asks, trying to follow his line of sight. It isn’t very crowded yet, but he still can’t determine what Noctis is staring at. He sees a lot of people milling around, and parents keeping half an eye on their kids. A couple of vendors are still setting up shop, but none of them are having trouble. He can’t hear any fights breaking out, either. “Noct?”

“Those guys almost ran me over this morning,” Noctis finally answers.  

“What? Who almost ran you over?” Prompto looks again, but still has no idea who Noctis is talking about. “Do I have to fight them?”

Noctis snorts. “I don’t think you’d want to.”

He beckons Prompto to lean closer and then carefully points out two men across the way. Without all its jets running, the fountain doesn’t obscure them at all, and Prompto doesn’t know if it even  _could_. The men are both very tall, and one of them has more muscle than he’s seen on most hunters--and it’s really obvious because the guy isn’t wearing a shirt under his jacket. They’re both dressed in dark clothes, though, and they both look like business. Tough business. Tough business on top of more business. The guy standing next to the muscular one wears glasses, and when Prompto sees him push them up the bridge of his nose with one smooth movement, he feels like all the man would have to do is lay eyes on him to end his life at least once over.

Prompto swallows and crouches down as a sort of reflex, hoping to stop the shiver crawling up his back. “Okay, you’re right. I don’t think I want to fight them.”

“Sit down,” Noctis says. He chuckles a bit as he tugs Prompto off the ground. “Imagine what they’ll do if they catch you staring at them.”

“Don’t do that to me, Noct,” Prompto whines. He doesn’t particularly want to die today. He slides into his chair, expecting the topic to fall away when Noctis turns around, too, but instead, Noctis hunches down a little and makes a tiny aborted motion with his head, like he does and doesn’t want to turn around again. “Something still bugging you?”

Noctis turns his head, but not quite enough to see those men again. His brow is furrowed, lips pressed tight, but he doesn’t answer. Prompto watches over his head as the two drift out of sight, finally hidden by the fountain’s rising basins. Eventually, Noctis shakes his head and says, “Nah. It’s nothing.”

“You sure?” Prompto asks, still keeping an eye out around the fountain. “By ‘almost ran you over,’ they didn’t _actually_ hit you, did they?”

“No,” Noctis answers quickly, waving his hands. “We just--they didn’t see me, I didn’t see them, but the driver stopped before they introduced the front of their car to my legs. It’s fine. I was just trying to figure out where they were from. Kinda rich looking, you know?”

“Yeah, you said it. That big guy looks like he could be a hunter, though. Maybe they’re around for the festival? There are lots of hunters we don’t know coming in.”

Noctis stares at his phone for a couple seconds before nodding. “Yeah, maybe. Kinda hoping that’s not the case, though. We’d have to compete against him.”

He has a point. Prompto’s confident about their chances of doing well this year, but he’d be more confident without having to look at everyone they’re up against, especially after the fiasco that had been their attempt last year.

He’d tanked completely during last year’s Festival of the Hunt. Every night for an entire week, hunters from all over had made their marks against the daemons. They’d come together as they could rarely afford to any other time and felled one monster after another, competing at the same time to see who could take out the most threats.

And Prompto, floating on how proud he was of his marksmanship--of how proud _Noctis_ was of him--wrecked it on the third night. Completely ruined it. And then, to add salt to the wound--the multiple very bad, very bloody wounds, actually--his mistake forced Noctis to go overboard with a power he hardly knew how to control to begin with. He’d spent the rest of the week laid up in bed, unconscious. Prompto had spent it all in the bed right next to him, trying to ignore the pitying looks other hunters gave him while their injuries healed.

He doesn’t know where Noctis’ magic comes from. Noctis doesn’t know, either. He just knows that Noctis has gotten way better at using it, that they’ve both gotten way better at fighting, enough that Prompto really is confident that they’ll do better this year. Despite that, whenever he see Noctis blink from place to place too often, crossing the distances faster than the blink of an eye so often that Prompto can’t keep up with him, Prompto feels his heart twist and his gut clench.

He doesn’t want to see Noctis’ body covered in that sickly blue sheen again, doesn’t want to watch it crack and fall away like dead skin while Noctis staggers and bleeds from his nose. He doesn’t want to see Noctis try desperately to risk his life to save someone else’s skin--to save  _Prompto’s_ , no less--and then almost burn up in a firestorm of his own making when his body gives out.

Prompto breaks out of his reverie when Noctis nudges his shin with his boot. His blinks and finds Noctis staring at him expectantly. “Huh? Did you say something?”

Noctis jerks his head to the side almost imperceptibly and hisses, “Can you still see them?”

Prompto looks up and, yes, the two men are still a fair distance away, but now they’re on the other side of the fountain from where they’d been before. They’re a little closer. The muscular one glances in the direction of their table and Prompto looks away before he can determine if they’d actually locked eyes for a split second or not. “Yeah, I see them.”

Noctis looks down at their untouched food for a moment, pensive. “You wanna just take our haul back home?”

“They giving you the creeps?” Prompto chances a glance up. The men seem to be considering a vendor’s wares and haven’t moved.

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Then sure, totally.” Prompto gathers all the bottles up in his arms again and Noctis grabs the basket of skewers. “Can we still go out later for ice cream?”

Noctis smiles and drapes his free arm around Prompto’s shoulders as they turn their back on the plaza. “Yeah, definitely. Let’s pack for tomorrow, first. Then we can just eat ice cream and go to sleep.”

“Oh, great idea!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your rad comments and kudos; the responses to this fic are so heartwarming :D After this chapter I intend to try to keep to a regular update schedule to keep my updates paced with what I already have written. All in all, it's going fairly well so far. The next couple chapters or so are going to include a couple of the Actually Intentionally Plotted pieces, and they're going to continue building up where this road will eventually be turning. Fingers crossed we don't break down :)


	3. wandering away

Lestallum is bright and charming. It’s busy most of the day, too, and even during the night, which isn’t so different than Insomnia. It’s also hot as hell, though. Even worse, it’s humid. Gladio spent most of their first day in the city out and about, exploring, and by the time the sun began to set he’d never been more grateful for shade, or for extra strength sunscreen.  

The very next morning, he gets started early for two reasons: because he wants to beat the heat and go for a run before the sun has a chance to bake him, and because they won’t be able to spend the whole day turning rocks over on the sidewalks.

He’s seen Ignis’ evaluation of their funds, and it’s a little grim. They barely have the gil to sustain themselves for a couple days, let alone the amount of time they’ll need to track down Noctis before they can leave with him. They need more money, no doubt about it.

Luckily, Ignis already has a plan: hunting. It’s a no brainer, too. They have the equipment and they have the skills. They get more gil, and, just as important, they get a chance to wriggle into the network. If they start hunting in the same area as Noctis, they’re bound to run into each other in the field eventually.

Ignis already has a mark for them, too. South of the city, some wild animals are raising hell and making snacks out of roaming herds of livestock. It might take a couple days to remove the threat in its entirety, but the reward money will set them up nicely for at least another few days.

Gladio is looking forward to the hunt if he’s honest with himself. When he sets out from the Leville he wants to run more than jog, to give his excitement an outlet, but he manages to keep himself in check. No good to use too much energy at the start of what might be a long day.

He’s already memorized the streets close to the hotel. He starts off on one of them, jogging straight down until he passes the market, where he can already hear activity coming to life in the dim morning. Everywhere else he looks, he can only see a few other early risers and the women working to keep the power running smoothly. After the market, he’s offered half a dozen different directions, and after a brief glance around he chooses to head northeast, slowly heading deeper into the city.

There are a couple roads to cross, ones that seem to only lead either directly to the power station or to one of the city’s many underground parking structures, like the one right under the Leville that he and Ignis had finally managed to find an actual route to. When he isn’t jogging along the side of the road, he’s keeping track of the turns he takes, the street names he sees. Eventually, he unintentionally winds up at the fountain plaza where he and Ignis had eaten the night before. The fountain has more jets running, but the plaza is otherwise quiet, so much so that Gladio inexplicably feels like he shouldn’t be there, even with the presence of a few other people. He picks another direction and keeps going.

Slowly, Lestallum is waking up. More and more people greet each other and then him as he runs by, and he gladly greets them back. Unlike during his quiet, focused runs around Insomnia, he doesn’t get the chance to lose the easy smile that he finds settling on his face.

Lestallum is, on top of everything else, a refreshingly friendly place.

He’s looking over his shoulder, just having greeted someone riding by on their bike, when he collides with something thin but hard. He winds up toppling onto his side and rolling once before he stops himself reflexively. He looks behind him automatically to find the pole he missed like a dumbass--but there’s nothing. Then, he hears a low groan nearby, and the pieces come back together.

A man picks himself up from a heap on the ground a few feet away from Gladio. He’s short and skinny, wearing a tank top and shorts, and a brace around his right knee. On a closer look, Gladio can see he’s lean, with a good amount of muscle in his legs and shoulders. He’s another runner, one who was moving fast enough to send them both careening off course after he practically bowled over Gladio.

He also recovers quickly. As soon as he gets his knees off the ground, he shoots up and spins on his heel toward Gladio. One of his hands buries itself in fluffy blond hair, fingers grasping at the strands nervously, and his blue eyes are wide. An apology is spilling from his lips before he even gets a full breath in.

“ _Crap_ \--hey, I’m sorry about that, I didn’t see you coming!” The runner babbles, reaching out with his hands upturned. “Like  _super_ sorry, do you need a hand? I’m like--”

Gladio can pinpoint the exact moment it happens. The guy’s eyes widen just so, and his lips make a valiant effort to pull down as he tries to maintain an apologetic expression. Gladio isn’t sure if it’s his size, or the tattoos, or the scar--or maybe all three--but the dude is definitely nervous. Almost afraid, even.

More importantly, though, Gladio feels a spark of recognition. The pale, freckled face, the slant of his brows, and the messy hair. The gangly limbs and the multitude of bracelets on one wrist. Gladio has never met him in person before, but, like Noctis’ matured face, he’s had time to memorize him from the pictures.

There’s also something else, something pressing at the back of his mind, but Gladio doesn’t think he has the time to sit on the ground and mull over it. He pushes himself to his feet, words on his tongue. An introduction? Yeah, he should probably start there. Or, wait--

The guy’s still rambling. Or, he was until Gladio stood up and inadvertently towered over him. Then his shoulders pull in a little and he breaks off with a short wheeze. Gladio grimaces internally.

“Again, I’m so sorry about that,” the runner says again after another brief recovery. He takes a step back. “You’re good, though, right?”

Gladio looks down at himself, mostly for show. There’s a scrape on his elbow and another on his palm, both stinging lightly, but he won’t even be thinking about those in an hour. “Yeah, I’m completely fine--”

“Oh, that’s great.” The runner sags a little with relief. “All’s well that ends well, right?” Gladio can tell he’s trying for casual and confident, but it’s not quite sticking. “Uh, anyway, since you’re not bleeding or anything--um--yeah, good morning--”

“Just a second,” Gladio starts as the guy keeps edging away.

“--sorry about that, and uh, have a good day!”

And then he’s bolting away, back the way he’d come before Gladio can get another word in. His first few steps are uneven, likely caused by some pain in his braced knee, but then his gait smooths out and he’s running like the wind--and Gladio is cursing under his breath as he remembers himself.

He starts off after the runner, and this time he picks up the pace just to keep the guy in his sights as he darts around a corner. He pulls his phone out and dials, and Ignis answers after two rings.

“Hey, Iggy--”

“Is something wrong?” Ignis asks immediately, probably drawing concern from the way Gladio is breathing right into the mic.

“That blond kid in the pictures,” Gladio says quickly. He doesn’t have time to do anything other than cut right to the chase--said kid is really giving him a run for his money, always ducking out of sight once Gladio thinks he’s got a beat on him, always reappearing a little farther away. “The one that was standing next to Noctis. We got a name on him?”

Ignis is silent for a moment. “No. Why?”

“Because I just ran into him. Like, literally, just got bowled over--”

“I’m sorry, _he_ bowled over _you_?”

“Yeah, kid’s damn fast. I’m just trying to keep up here.”

Something rustles on Ignis’ end. “Where are you?”

“Went north from the hotel--” Gladio trails off as he finds himself running back through the fountain plaza, and his memory finally sparks. Faintly, he smells a dozen different dishes and hears sounds from all over. The sun is getting low but it’s still hot in the middle of the crowd, and weaving through the people is a vaguely familiar man, arms laden with skewers and drinks. And then, under that umbrella right over there-- “I saw him last night, too. He was gone before I could get a closer look, but I _knew_ it was him, and I’m pretty sure he saw me, too.”

“Do you still have him in sight?”

The runner is fast and sneaky, leading Gladio through alleys and steadily crowding streets, but Gladio’s still managing to keep track of his bright hair. “Yeah, I’m still on him.”

“It may serve us well to know where he can be found,” Ignis says. “But if he does lead you back to his place of residence--”

“I’m not gonna go knocking on his door, Ignis!” Gladio exclaims. “Astrals, he probably thinks I’m out for  _blood_. I just wanted a couple words, but he ran off before I could say anything. At this point, I’ll just see where we wind up.”

“Be careful, then. If the authorities get called on us, our entire mission is at risk.” Ignis lowers his voice until Gladio can hardly hear him over his own breathing. “People _cannot_ find out there are Crownsguard here, or why.”

“I know,” Gladio replies quietly. “I’ll just see where he’s going and then stay hidden.”

It’s a bit of tricky work, staying on the runner’s tail while also--hopefully--staying out of sight. Lestallum’s streets really aren’t made for it, so full of stairs and tight, winding slopes. On the odd chance that Gladio comes face to face with him again, though, he practices an apology. He knows he’s not exactly doing himself a favour by following the guy across what feels like half the city, but until he finds Noctis he isn’t yet in the business of scaring people off left and right.

The runner leads him to a spice shop tucked on the corner of two streets intersecting in a Y shape. It hasn’t opened yet, but there are stairs on its northern face leading to the second of its three storeys. The runner finally slows down and looks around quickly, and, thankfully, he doesn’t spot Gladio ducked behind a large, half-filled trash bin. Gladio watches as he climbs the stairs and disappears inside. Then, he takes in the rest of the building.

The other two floors must be apartments. There aren’t any balconies, but most of the windows have a variety of different curtains drawn and some have flower boxes filled with colourful petals hanging from the sills. Some windows are also open, inviting the cool morning air in.

He calls Ignis again and gets through after only one ring this time. “I’m on--let me see--Avenue Delphi. There’s a place called Avine’s Spices, and it got apartments over it. That’s where he went.”

He hears the click of a pen. “Any idea how many apartments are inside?”

“I can check in a bit. I think I managed to stay hidden, but I want to be sure before I try sneaking around.”

“That would be best. See that you don’t hang around too long, either. We've got a schedule to keep, now. We’re expected in Kelbass before noon.”

“Gotcha. We got lots of time--hold on.”

“What is it?”

Gladio squints as a set of dark curtains in a third-floor window moves, the fabric yanked aside by pale arms. The runner appears for a split second before he backs out of sight. “I found him. Third-floor apartment.”

The runner appears again and slides the window open so that he can lean out of it with a camera. Gladio follows the angle of the lens to a flock of chubby birds gathered in a power line near the building.

“He’s taking pictures of pigeons,” Gladio reports.

“I hardly think that’s relevant,” Ignis says dryly.

“Probably not. Should I head in or come back?”

Ignis hums thoughtfully. “I think I will investigate the apartment tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I’m that conspicuous.”

The runner hasn’t even noticed him from his new vantage point. He’s still focusing on the birds. Literally.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. We should still be careful. Also, I’m preparing breakfast. You should come back and eat before we leave.”

Gladio stands and stretches a little. “All right, it’s a plan. I might take a bit to get back, though. Kind of lost track of how I got over here.”

“We do still have plenty of time,” Ignis muses before ending the call.

 

\--

 

In the dream, he is alone in a forest, surrounded by countless trees that are as wide as a small building, and so tall that he cannot make out any foliage through the soft mist that hangs in the air around him. He climbs over and under roots thicker than his own body, following a bright light peeking between the trees.

He follows the light for what feels like hours. It never seems to come any closer. When he calls out, he hears nothing but an echo.  

The forest grows dark, and his eyes grow heavy, and only then does he come across a giant, empty pedestal made of ancient, cracked marble. There is a plaque on one side, but the forest is so dark by the time he reaches it that he cannot recognize any words from the faint marks left on its surface.

He hears his name, behind him, echoing in the dark. Again, and again. The voice is deep and vaguely familiar.

But he’s so tired now that he cannot answer.

 

\--

 

“Noct! Wakey-wakey!”

It’s the light that really wakes him up. He cracks an eye open when Prompto’s voice pulls him from sleep, but then the curtains are being yanked open and the light stabs his eyes. Noctis protests wordlessly and pulls his blanket up over his head. Prompto, oblivious to the consequences of his crusade to bring light to the apartment, gasps and runs from the room, only to return a few seconds later. Noctis pokes his head up long enough to see him all but launch his upper body out the window to take pictures of something.

“What time is it?” Noctis grumbles. It’s early, he knows. Prompto is dressed in his running clothes, and he’s sweaty. Before Prompto can answer, an entire flock of chocobos start chirping from the nightstand. Noctis rolls over and slaps Prompto’s phone until his seven o’clock alarm stops.

“It’s seven,” Prompto says, late. “I’ll make some breakfast in a bit--all the pigeons are preening.”

“Got it.” Noctis sinks back under the blanket, yawning. He doesn’t remember having taken the whole blanket for himself, but he assumes it happened again after Prompto got up for his morning run. Noctis stays hidden, drifting until Prompto stops taking pictures and leaves the room again. His ears follow the sound of Prompto’s feet on the creaking floor--and the footfalls are uneven.

Noctis sits up and rubs his eyes. Any time before eight is a cursed hour, but Prompto is already in the kitchen, pulling a pan out of the cupboard by the sound of things. Noctis climbs out of bed and shuffles down the hall. He leans in the doorway across from the washroom, watching Prompto pull the last of their eggs and cheese out of the fridge. His back is turned, but Noctis can still get a good look at his right leg.

A scar runs down from the outside of his thigh and spider webs around his knee and calf. It’s not quite old enough to have gone all white, even after a year, but it’s getting there. It’s pale pink now, and only turns a weird shade of red or purple when it’s cold out. His knee brace also hides a good chunk of it when he wears it. As far as Noctis can see, though, there's nothing on his skin other than the scar and some freckles.

It’s Prompto’s left leg that catches his attention, then, as Prompto steps back to open a drawer and grab a whisk. The outer side of his knee is all scraped up. There’s no blood, but when Noctis gets closer, he can see a patch of his knee that’s been skinned lightly.

“Did you trip while you were out?”

“Huh?” Prompto jumps slightly at the sound of Noctis’ voice so close. He glances down at his legs and then whirls around and cries, “Dude! I told you they were gonna end me!”

Noctis frowns. “What? Who’s trying to end you?”

“Those guys we saw last night.” Prompto snaps his fingers a couple times. “The uh--the tough business guys! I ran into one of them while I was out. Just kinda…” He curls his hands into fists and knocks them together. “Yeah, ran into each other and fell over.”

“Did that hurt your knee?”

Prompto blinks a couple times, perplexed. His expression smooths out quickly, though--or, actually, goes back to overly worried. “Yeah, the fall kind of jarred it a little. It’s fine, I’ll do some extra stretches. But like, I ran into the really muscly guy, and then he started following me! I managed to throw him off my tail, but, Six, I thought he was gonna chase me down all the way back home!”

“Shit. Did you, I dunno, apologize?”

Noctis remembers them, now. Behind the glare on the windshield of their car, he hadn’t been able to really see much of them. He also hadn’t really been trying, what with having almost been knocked off his bike by a big, fancy car. Then they’d appeared in the plaza while Prompto was getting dinner, and it was like a screw jarred loose and started rolling around in his head.

Thinking about the car is like flipping between pictures on Prompto’s camera, going from high definition to low focus after his hand on the lens slipped. It wavers, and then the loose screw bounces off of it and it sharpens again. It’s the same with the faces of the men inside. Sharp and not. Intimidating and not. Setting something off in the back of Noctis’ head, down his spine--and not. He can't place it, or the cause of it.

“Of course I did,” Prompto answers quickly. “Accidents happen, right? I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Did he say anything to you?” Noctis narrows his eyes. He wants to know if he should be genuinely wary or not. Or maybe if he needs to kick someone’s ass.

“Uh,” Prompto says after a brief moment of silence. “He said he was fine and that it was okay.”

Noctis tries to nudge him along. “And then?”

“And then I left.”

“And he followed you.”

“For a bit, yeah.”

Noctis thinks on that for a couple seconds and comes up chuckling. “Prom, are you sure he didn’t also wanna apologize? Since, you know, you both ran into each other?”

Prompto flushes a bit and rubs the back of his head. “Well, when you say it like that--hey, don’t laugh at me! That was real fear, Noct. I thought my life was in danger.”

Noctis ruffles Prompto’s hair and then leans in to peck him on the lips. “I’m glad you’re okay. You’re a dork, sometimes, that’s all. He probably just wanted to say sorry, too. You probably came out of that with more scrapes than he did.”

“I have a hard time picturing a little fall doing much damage to a guy like that,” Prompto says. He bats Noctis’ hand away. “Let me make food, now. I’m super hungry after my ordeal.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Noctis backs out of the kitchen. He grabs a towel from their bedroom and then shuts himself in the bathroom. Prompto starts singing under his breath, but the sound is drowned out when Noctis starts running water.

He spends the first half of his shower running through a mental checklist of the things packed in the bags in the hallway, right at the foot of the door. A couple changes of clothes; gil; food that’s easy to prepare; extra gil; first aid kits; more extra gil stashed in the bottom of his bag in the inevitable event that Prompto accidentally spends too much. Their weapons are still in the trunk of the car along with Noctis’ fishing gear and the camping gear that he kind of hopes they won’t have to use. Prompto will definitely remember to pack his camera up again. He might not have remembered to pack his glasses again, though, so Noctis makes a mental note to double check that.

Dolly has other people to run deliveries, so she’ll be fine--oh yeah, he should pack sunscreen, too--and unless Vyv wants to run an article about Old Lestallum or Taelpar, he won’t be contacting Prompto. They’re free of social obligations from now to the end of the Festival of the Hunt. They also won’t be running into the rich tourists again for at least a week and a half, then.

Noctis spends the rest of the shower turning up the heat to wash away the headache that rises up from the back of his head to press against his temple. He’ll double check that they have pain killers, too.

 

\--

 

They’re back in Old Lestallum by the time noon rolls around. It’s warm, but the Wennath river carries some of the heat away under sparkling currents. The town is busier, this time, but mostly because there are more hunters hanging around. They’re warning tourists away from the area, now. The festival is always more dangerous than most people should risk.

Noctis parks on the side of the road near the motel instead of taking one of the few spaces left in the lot. He recognizes a few cars just by sight, a few hunters at a glance, as he and Prompto make their way to a long tarpaulin pitched next to the diner. _Meldacio Hunter HQ_ is painted across its length in eye-catching black letters.

“I don’t see Vesta anywhere, yet,” Prompto comments behind him.

“Might be coming in later,” Noctis replies with a shrug.

Under the tarp, there are so many boxes stacked up that they might as well form the walls of a tent. Amidst them all is a lone hunter, leaning on one of the shorter crate towers and scribbling on a clipboard. He hears them and turns around before either of them have the chance to grab his attention.

“Well, well,” Dave says when he lays eyes on them. He shifts to hold the clipboard under his arm. “I was just thinkin’ about how I hadn't seen you boys down here yet. Good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Hunter Dave,” Noctis says, reaching out to shake Dave’s free hand. Dave’s an older hunter who oversees a lot of the goings on amongst the hunters, and while he’s occasionally gruff, Noctis is of the opinion that he’s got one of the best hearts of all of them. “We were actually here a couple weeks ago.”

“Ah, things hadn’t moved down from Meldacio yet, then.”

“Are things going good here?” Prompto asks. “Starting to see lots of hunters around.”

“We’re doing fine so far. Got almost everything ready, with only a couple things that need ironing out.” Dave pulls his phone out of his back pocket and scrolls through it. “My understanding here is that you boys are some of the ones heading to the Taelpar rest stop to deal with one of ‘em. That right? They called you?”

“Yep! They said trouble and Noct and I are ready to rumble.”

“We just figured we’d stop here first to get in the books,” Noctis adds.

“I thought so.” Dave steps back and beckons them to follow. “I got it over here. Pages are already getting crowded. I like our chances this year.”

He leads them to a table wedged into a square of free space between all the boxes. There are more papers and clipboards than Noctis would ever know what to do with, and from beneath them, Dave digs out a thin book. The cover claims it’s a guest book, but a note taped to the front says _Fest. Hunters_ in large block letters. Dave flips it open and takes a few seconds to turn to a clean page, and Noctis can see that there really are lots of names written in it already. That’s just as well--more hunters means more competition during the festival, but it also means more dead daemons.

“Just you two, right?” Dave asks as he sets the book on the table and slides it toward Noctis and Prompto. He offers the pen he’d been using, too.

“Yep.” Noctis nods and takes the pen. The page he leans over to write on is sectioned into three sets of lines labelled one to four. He writes his name in the first line of the first set and holds the pen out to Prompto. “We’re back.”

“Ready to rock and roll,” Prompto says as he takes the pen and scratches his name in underneath Noctis’. “Thank you very much, Hunter Dave.”

Dave smiles a little as he takes the pen and scores out the remaining two lines in the section. “I wish you boys luck this year.” That he’s glad they’re back at all goes unspoken in Noctis’ mind. “Best of luck on that hunt, too. We really need that one cleaned up, and soon.”

“Do you know exactly what’s going on?” Noctis asks. “I only got so much from word of mouth.”

He knows there’s a stubborn voretooth pack, which isn’t unusual for a wooded area in Duscae, and that a few hunters have already come away from their attempts to deal with the beasts with some nasty injuries. Other than that, though, he isn’t sure what makes it so unique.

Dave sighs heavily. “Supplies are getting backed up by some real nasty customers. Most of it is first aid supplies.” He takes the clipboard out from under his arm and taps it with a disappointed shake of his head. “These numbers aren’t nearly what they should be. You saw all the names we have so far, right? And we’re still expecting more to come in this week. That’s a lot of folks who’ll need lots of first aid.”

Prompto hisses. “Ouch, it’d definitely be bad if those didn't get through.”

“Exactly. From what I know, though, it’s been no easy work getting the beasts to leave the caravans alone. Any old hunter or two just won’t cut it.” Dave fixes both of them with a serious look. “Now, they called a couple of hunters down there already, but they’re gonna need a team to do it. I had them see if you boys could come down ahead of the festival instead of any of the people we have here now because I know you’ve got skills that a lot of hunters don’t. We’re counting on you, here.”

Noctis nods. He meets Dave’s eyes and knows there’s an understanding between them. Dave doesn’t know everything--probably couldn’t, even if he tried--but he knows how much work Noctis has been putting into learning his abilities, sharpening his skills in recent months. He knows that Noctis can use magic, that he can blink and set things aflame or freeze them solid, and he’s trusting Noctis to use that power alongside Prompto's killer aim to make sure this hunt succeeds.

“Don’t worry; we’ll make sure the supplies make it in time.”

“Good man,” Dave says. “Best not waste time. Be careful out there, boys.”

They wave goodbye, then step back out into the midday sun, leaving Dave to his inventory. Their errand finished, Noctis considers heading into the Crow’s Nest for lunch.

Prompto makes the decision for him by budging his shoulder and saying into his ear, “Fries… Chickatrice fingers and fries.”

“That’s one of the least healthy options on the menu,” Noctis says as if he isn’t intending on placing two orders of exactly that.

“It’s _fuel_ ,” Prompto says. “I’ll order a bit of salad, too.”

“Gross.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided amidst a windstorm that I'm gonna shoot for having updates on Sundays or Mondays every week or so. In the meantime, thank you so much for all your lovely comments so far! They keep me going late at night when I can't find a word on the tip of my tongue. I'm very glad the characters have managed to come to life so well :D
> 
> I had some difficulty with organizing some events in this stretch of the plot, which resulted in this chapter running shorter than I'd originally intended. The next chapter is longer in return, though. It's also got scenes which I very much enjoyed writing and look forward to posting :) This happened partially because this story is also an exercise in pacing myself. I’ve been notorious in the past for moving quite quickly, so what I’m trying to do with this fic is write a winding stream rather than a fast flowing river. Which is not to say that speed overall won’t pick up, but for now, this is a baby river. A country backroad as opposed to a highway. Y’know, lots of scenery and old faded signs for things that you’re not sure are still there. 
> 
> (they are still there)


	4. intersection

The Taelpar rest stop is a quiet spot. It’s more of a hamlet, nowadays, but it doesn’t have enough of a population yet for people to just start calling it Taelpar, full stop. It’s in the middle of the woods and, what with it being on the eastern side of the crag, it’s a little cooler than Lestallum, especially in the afternoon. The smell of pine is thick in the air, and the only thing that can overpower it is the local Crow’s Nest. There are also a few more small trucks parked nearby than what Noctis would consider normal. The caravans, all held up until the roads are safer.

They don’t check into the motel just yet. Prompto voices the faint chance that they might wind up out far enough that they’ll have to camp, and so Noctis is reluctant to spend money on a room on the chance that they won’t get to use it. No point in spending money just to sleep on some rocks.

The diner is fairly quiet, too. A far cry from the one they’d left two hours ago. The cook is only waiting on a couple of patrons, and he looks toward the door as soon as Noctis and Prompto step inside. He recognizes them almost as quickly.

“Now, I think it’s been a while since I saw you boys this far south,” he says, moving to stand before them on the other side of the counter with a good-natured, if not weary, smile. Noctis vaguely remembers the man’s thinning hairline and round glasses, but he still has to glance down at the nametag reading _Heran_ clipped to his apron. “We’re grateful you could make it down, though.”

“Happy to help,” Noctis says, sliding onto a stool. Prompto drops himself into the stool on his left and rests his chin on his arms in front of him. “How’s it looking out there?”

“It’s a bit dicey,” Heran says, his smile fading. “It’s a voretooth pack if you remember. Thing is, though, people who’ve seen ‘em now say they look sick or something. They don’t act right, and it don’t matter if the sun’s up or down. It’s not a small pack, either, so they’ve got us a little pinned down. The hunters have cargo that needs to be moved safely, and they can’t do that with these beasts prowling around.”

“Sick how?” Prompto asks, raising his head a bit. “Anyone catch a picture or something?”

“Afraid not. Whatever it is, though, they need takin’ care of. We don’t want whatever they have to start spreading out of the pack.”

“Guess we’d better get started as soon as we can.” Noctis turns to look over his shoulder quickly. The other patrons sitting in the booths don’t look like hunters. No visible gear, and nothing in their postures that say they know how to be a threat. “We were told there’d be other hunters helping out. Safety in numbers, all that.”

Heran grimaces. “Yeah, that’s right. I called some buddies of mine to come down a couple days ago. I got a call just a bit ago, though. They ran into some trouble on their last hunt, and one of ‘em came out nowhere near fighting shape.”

“It’s just us, then?” Prompto asks, his voice tinged with worry.

“I didn’t say that,” Heran answers hastily, waving the question away. “They managed to get another couple hunters that were in the area to come down in their stead. They’re comin’ down from up north a little, so they should be here around sundown.”

“That gives us at least a couple hours, then.” Prompto turns his seat toward Noctis. He braces his hands on the counter so that he can keep facing Noctis while he uses his hips to keep moving the seat back and forth. “Do you wanna take a walk in the woods? Scout around a bit?”

“Maybe a little, I guess,” Noctis says. “Not too far, though. We should wait until we have a team before we risk stepping in anything.”

“Totally. I’m talking pinky toe in the water, and that’s it.”

“Then, yeah. Bring your camera.” Noctis hops off his stool and says to Heran, “We’ll make sure to be back before dark.”

“Stay on your toes out there,” Heran calls after them as they leave.

“Let me grab my camera,” Prompto says, steering them back to the car. He grabs his camera from the passenger seat as Noctis digs out a couple of their weapons from the trunk. “Where do you wanna start?”

Noctis turns in a circle slowly, surveying the woods just beyond the diner and the motel. To the north, the road disappears into a tunnel, which they could drive to the other end of for a look about. The eastbound road passes under a pair of the Duscaen arches, and he knows from memory that that stretch of road is surrounded by patches of dense underbrush and especially steep slopes. On the southbound side, there’s another tunnel that leads to entirely different threats in the Caem area. All in all, the whole place is set up perfectly for a pack of supposedly crazed creatures to ambush travellers.

“Let’s head toward the arches for a bit,” Noctis answers eventually, pointing them out over the treetops. “Voreteeth like hunting in forests. Let’s look for signs.”

“There aren’t any bodies to look for, are there?”

Noctis thinks back to the original phone call, and the notes written on his phone. He scrolls through them quickly as they head toward the woods. “No. A lot of injuries, though, and one caravan’s worth of supplies lost for good.”

“So if we find any kits on the ground, we should probably hang low.”

“Yeah. We just want a look.”

And they do look. After a disturbingly short walk from the rest area, they find tracks that look more like gouges in the earth--voreteeth dig in and kick the ground up like nothing else when they run--and, eventually, a few sad scraps of ruined first aid kits. Prompto takes a few pictures, but his lens never lands on any of the beasts in question.

They circle back through the rest area and do another sweep of the woods on the western side, and they find much of the same, although there seem to be more tracks, some old, some new. By then, the sun is getting low, the light filtering orange through the trees, and Noctis is ready to head back. Just before he can say so, though, he hears the click of a shutter, and then Prompto gasps and yanks at his right arm. Noctis goes down, mostly out of surprise, and then before he knows it he’s flat on the ground next to a bush, and Prompto is nearly as flat as he is. His eyes flick up and down from his camera to something beyond the bush.

Noctis hardly dares to breathe. He pokes Prompto in the side and mouths at him instead. _How many?_

Prompto holds up one finger. There’s an odd expression on his face--a mix of confusion and disgust, curiosity and nausea. Noctis wonders what exactly he’s looking at until Prompto inches closer to him and shows him a picture on his camera.

There’s a voretooth partially obscured by a tree smack in the middle of the frame. Judging by the picture, it isn’t too close to them, but the fact that they can see it at all has them both tense. If they can see it, it’ll soon be able to smell them, and Noctis doesn’t want it to just yet, because true to what Heran had told them earlier, the creature just looks… wrong. It has the general  _shape_ of a voretooth, but its hide is all the wrong colour. It looks like something took a chunk out of its side, and then it just kept going, leaking infected, inky blood all the while. It looks like it  _died_ and kept going.

It looks like they need to put some space between it and them, and come up with an actual plan to kill it for good.

Prompto takes another peek at the unfortunate creature, and then nudges Noctis’ shoulder, telling him wordlessly to start backing up. Noctis shimmies backwards, not daring to be seen yet. Prompto follows his lead. After a moment he peeks around the bush again, and then carefully starts to rise up from the ground.

“He wasn’t kidding about the things looking wrong,” he whispers. “That thing--something’s super wrong with it. I’ve never seen them like that.”

“I’ve never seen it, either. Let’s get back before it sees us, though. We’ve gotta be ready if we’re gonna take them on.”

“Right, right--”

No sooner than they turn around do they hear what Noctis can best describe as a low, gurgling cry. His hand clamps down on Prompto’s arm automatically.

“Shit, it even _sounds_ wrong!” Prompto yelps as they begin to run. Noctis feels like he can hear its claws digging into the ground as it starts to give chase in his chest, and even though they’re still close to the rest area--the motel’s large sign is still within sight, even--he knows the voretooth, despite its illness, can and will catch up to them before they can get to safety. Unless--

Usually, when he summons the will to blink, he pictures the magic as a blanket on his bed or the couch. He thinks of himself wrapped tightly in the blanket, and then tighter as ice blooms in his bones, electricity in his fingers. He pictures the blanket balled up tighter and tighter and then thrown across the room.

It’s probably not the best way in which he was meant to learn how to do it, but it  _works_. He follows that image, and he blinks, and things work out.

This time, though. This time, he grabs Prompto around the waist, yanks his dagger free from its sheath, and wraps the blanket around both of them. Like when they huddled together on the couch to watch movies when they were younger. Or, even better, like their bed most nights--a blanket wrapped around their shoulders as tightly as they manage to wrap around each other during Lestallum’s warm nights. He pulls it in more and more until he knows by the hitch in Prompto’s breathing that he can feel the blink coming on, too.

He knows Prompto doesn’t like it when he uses his magic, or when he bends his limits to his will. But they need to get away fast enough that the voretooth will give up hunting them.

“Sorry,” Noctis breathes just before it happens. He balls the blanket up, feels the sparking cascade running through Prompto’s skin, and  _throws_.

They blink, and suddenly the diner is only a few short feet away from them. Prompto loses his footing as soon as they hit the ground, and he pulls Noctis down with him. Dull pain begins to creep through his skull, but he ignores it. He kneels over Prompto protectively, arm still wrapped around his waist, and scans the forest behind them until he’s certain the voretooth has deemed them to be too much effort and left them alone. Only then does he focus on breathing. On Prompto’s breathing.

“Noct,” Prompto starts. His face, as he looks up at Noctis, won’t settle on one expression.

“Sorry,” Noctis says again. “Are you good?”

“Yeah, of course. I’m fine. What about--”

“I’m fine,” Noctis insists. Other than the headache, he is. “It was nothing.” He unwinds his arm from Prompto’s waist to pat him on the back. “It’s not like I have to put much effort in to take you along for the ride; you don’t weigh any more than I do.”

Prompto huffs out a laugh. “Okay. If you say so.”

“I do say so.” Noctis stands up and pulls Prompto along with him. “How about we get brushed off and get something to eat?”

“Why don’t I try making something since we ordered lunch?” Prompto suggests as he brushes dirt and leaves off his front. He does the same for Noctis, and his fingers press a little harder than they need to, almost clinging to the collar of his vest.

“You made breakfast,” Noctis reminds him.

He grabs one of Prompto’s hands and squeezes it, partly because he has a loose button that doesn’t need any more encouragement, and partly so that the contact will ground Prompto. It works after a few beats. Prompto grips back loosely and lets his other hand settle at his side.

“Doesn’t have to be diner food,” Noctis continues, “but dinner’s still on me.”

Prompto tries to disguise it in a series of deep breaths, but Noctis still catches him yawning. “Are we getting a room, then?”

“I think so.” Noctis knows he could down some coffee and set out tonight if the other hunters were in favour of it, but he’s also not looking forward to the idea of hunting a whole pack of those strange beasts in the dark. Not during the daemon hours. He’d rather spend the night making a plan. “Let’s at least get a drink or something, though. We have to check in at the diner, anyway.”

“Oh, right.” Prompto laughs a little. “I forgot we were actually waiting for people. It's starting to get late. You think they’re here yet?”

“Hopefully.” Noctis gives Prompto’s knuckles one last pat and then lets him have his hand back. “If not, we can sit down for a bit and see if they show up.”

They circle around to the front of the diner and step inside. There are some new customers, but when they approach the counter again, Heran shakes his head and tells him the other hunters haven’t quite arrived yet.

Prompto glances at the menu afterward, and he cracks pretty quickly. This time, Noctis pays for an order of sandwiches that are a little better for their health than the fried food they ate for lunch. He also orders two large sodas, which offset the healthiness of the sandwiches somewhat, but they quietly defend the decision to each other with small grins and a reminder that they’ll surely be working hard the next day.

Bright headlights shine into the diner briefly as a car pulls into the parking lot near the end of their meal, but Noctis barely notices. The sandwiches are settling comfortably in his belly, and he’s engrossed in a round of King’s Knight with Prompto, who tries to distract Noctis by playing footsie under the table every time his score falls too far below Noctis’. It doesn’t work. Noctis manages to catch both of Prompto’s feet between his and then crosses his ankles, effectively trapping Prompto between his calves. He takes a long sip of his drink and smirks, and Prompto eventually admits defeat on both fronts by burying his head in his arms on the table and groaning. The sound is muffled just enough that Noctis can easily hear when Heran calls his name.

He turns, straw still held between his lips and legs still holding Prompto’s fast, to see Heran gesturing in the direction of their table--and standing on the other side of the counter are two tall men whose faces are becoming increasingly familiar in Noctis’ mind. Faintly, he thinks he hears Prompto wheeze.

The man with the glasses meets his gaze first, and Noctis finds that it almost takes effort to remain impassive. Specs is wearing dark suspenders over a white button up now, impeccably pressed like the blazer he’d worn previously. He looks at Noctis with a cool expression that is otherwise completely indecipherable. Muscles is right behind him, and he’s not as good at hiding how he scrutinizes both Noctis and Prompto. He also doesn’t seem to own more than one pair of pants, even if he  _i_ _s_ wearing a shirt under his jacket this time.

Specs nods at Heran and begins his approach. Prompto definitely wheezes before he grabs his drink to give himself something to do. Noctis lets him have his legs back if only to press his own against them in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. He does not, however, let go of his straw until Specs is standing right in front of him. He opens his mouth to speak, likely to introduce himself, and in that second Noctis becomes determined to have the upper hand, if only so that Prompto will settle down before he gets too antsy.

“Are you the substitute hunters we’ve been waiting for?” Noctis asks. Something passes over Specs’ face, but it’s gone too quickly to name--difficult to stagger, but not impossible, then. He glances at his companion and then clears his throat.

“Yes, we are. My apologies for being late.” Specs’ voice is deep and smooth, lilting with an accent that Noctis couldn’t place if his life depended on it. “My name is Ignis. This is--”

“Gladio,” the other hunter finishes with a quick wave. “How about you guys?”

Prompto waves and the motion seems to help him shake off some of the tension in his body. “Prompto. Yo.”

Noctis lifts two fingers away from his cup and wiggles them. “Noctis.”

“Mind if we join you?” Gladio asks. His posture and tone are surprisingly friendly, considering the whole black on black plus scar combo he has going on.

Noctis gives Prompto a questioning look. He looks like he usually does in social situations that he is completely unprepared for--entirely willing to do whatever it takes to get out fast, desperately hoping that his smile is convincing all the while. After a couple of seconds of holding Noctis’ attention, though, he relaxes a little more, and nods.

“Yeah, sure!” His tone is several times more convincing than his face. He shuffles over and takes his sandwich plate with him, and then hastily wipes the crumbs on the table toward himself as Specs-- _Ignis_ \--sits down next to him in one fluid motion. Noctis is silently thankful that Ignis is sitting there instead of Gladio, whom Noctis has to make a little more room for.

Once they’re all settled, Ignis clasps his hands together primly and somehow manages to cut a path through the ensuing awkwardness in what must be a record time. “I’m afraid Gladio and I were drafted into the hunt on short notice, and so we don’t have all the details. Care to fill us in?”

And just like that, Prompto snaps back into the zone. Noctis feels a wave of relief as Prompto grabs his camera from his end of the table, and then again as Ignis and Gladio pay close attention to what he and Prompto have to say about the hunt so far. When they start offering their own input on how they might be able to work as a team to take the pack out, Noctis finds himself with less and less reason to be on edge than he’d initially thought.

Astrals willing, the hunt might actually go well.

 

\--

 

There is a coeurl that has taken up residence in the Kelbass Grasslands. According to Ignis’ research, however, this is extremely uncommon. The large felines usually make their homes in dense forests and the like, not grasslands.

Lenesque, the older woman whom they’d come to assist, had shaken her head sadly and tutted when he told her as much. “That’s supposed to be the case, but this happens every year,” she explained. “Usually, their territory’s way out on the other side of the Disc, but the daemons get so bad that they all scatter. Daemons don’t actually bother them, but coeurl’s are sensitive. Don’t like other things in their homes, so they go lookin’ for new ones. Just wish they wouldn’t come up and eat my livestock.”

“So you get hunters to come around every year?” Gladio asked, still a bit confused.

She explained that it happens every year. Every spring, there are creatures threatening her flocks that supposedly shouldn’t be. When Ignis mused on how the pattern was unusual, she’d given him an odd look and asked, “Haven’t been out of the city long, huh?”

They admitted it shamelessly, although she didn’t seem bothered by it. She’d only taken them aside for a few minutes to shed light on the pattern--every winter, daemons gather in greater numbers during the longer, colder nights. But in spring, the havoc they wreak is confined to shorter hours. The problems compound.

Hence, she’d explained, this Festival of the Hunt which Ignis has heard so many mentions of lately. An entire week where hunters gather to embark on a mass culling to set the balance back in order.

She mentioned that the festival was meant to begin soon, and Ignis wondered if Noctis, as a young hunter, would be involved--if he’d leave Lestallum to do so, and if Ignis and Gladio would have to find a way to keep track of him during its duration. He carefully folded those thoughts away, though, as a concern for the future, after the problems of the present have been resolved.

The most pressing of which is the coeurl on the prowl nearby. It hasn’t noticed Ignis and Gladio, even though they’ve been following it through the dense vegetation in the northern reaches the grasslands since it finished eating the meat that had been set in a trap to lure it in. The midday sun beats down on them through the thinning foliage as they follow it to a more open area, ready to ambush it when they’ve moved far enough south.

The coeurl begins to slow, reluctant to roam into the open fields, and Ignis catches a pointed look from Gladio. He reaches into thin air, tugging a thread of magic, of King Regis’ borrowed power--only wondering for a split second if Noctis knows how to do the same--and summons a pair of daggers. He’s nearly in a perfect position to throw one and strike the coeurl’s flank, which will hopefully disable its hind leg somewhat and slow it down.

He doesn’t count on it trying to escape. Coeurls are notorious for fighting to the death--their attacker’s death, usually.

Inhale, exhale. He nods at Gladio, who’s ready nearby with his shield.

Inhale, once more. Prepare, act, follow through.

He throws the dagger. It whips through the air and embeds itself in the coeurl’s hind leg, narrowly missing the joint of its hip. In the same moment, before the coeurl can even turn to find Ignis, Gladio bursts from the shrubbery on its other side and rams it with his shield. Its whiskers fall limp, stunned.

And then, it’s a dance. The coeurl is no easy foe, even with their opening flurry of attacks. It howls and roars at them and very nearly takes a piece of Ignis’ arm out with its claws, but Gladio moves with such speed that his shield takes the force of the attack instead. The grace with which he manages to defend and then deflect would be surprising if Ignis hadn’t seen him train tirelessly back in Insomnia.

Back then, Gladio had spent night after night battling with the dilemma of working so hard to attain such skill and yet having only the shadow of a purpose for it. Such nights left Ignis feeling inadequate--not because he thought his company was inferior to that of an absent prince, but because no amount of logic or consolation from Ignis could ever shake those weary moments from Gladio’s shoulders.

But there’s a renewed vigour in the way Gladio fights, now. He faces off with a coeurl with only Ignis at his back, he roars with enough volume and ferocity to match their opponent, and he does it with such an enthusiasm that Ignis never saw within the walls of their city. Despite the injuries that Ignis does eventually take from the whiskers which burn him with electricity, even after he avoids its signature attack of letting loose a much more deadly current, he, too, feels invigorated.

In the end, the coeurl puts up a valiant fight to the death. Gladio, with four long lacerations down his arm, silences it for good with his greatsword. They watch it draw its final breath, and then Gladio turns to Ignis with a triumphant grin.

“Not bad for some rookie hunters,” he says, clapping a hand on Ignis’ shoulder. “Not bad at all, huh?”

“Indeed.” Without their previous training, it might have gone much worse. “We should deliver the good news.”

Doing so means they have to travel to the southern fields, where Lenesque has been keeping her herds. Thankfully, they hadn’t travelled very far from where they’d left the Regalia, and the trip will be short. Then, they can return to Lestallum and continue surveying the city.

They don’t get very far from the site of their battle before a loud whistle catches their attention. Ignis scans the horizon and lands on the haven nearby. He’d noticed it earlier, the protective runes dim in the daylight, and had noted its location in the event that they would need to retreat. Now, a figure is waving to them from its edge.

“Think we should check it out?” Gladio asks, nudging him.

Ignis considers it briefly before redirecting their course. “We should at least rest for a moment to take care of those injuries properly.”

“Eh, I took a potion,” Gladio says offhandedly. “It’ll be fine.”

“It could still do with a bandage.”

“You could probably use some cream for those burns, too.”

And so, they climb up to the haven to find two hunters kneeling near its edge. The man who’d signalled them looks incredibly relieved to see them, and Ignis thinks he knows why when he catches sight of his companion. A woman lies on the ground with bandages wrapped around one of her arms, and more peek out from under her shirt. Red stains have seeped through the bandage on her arm.

“Damn, how many potions do we got kicking around, Iggy?” Gladio asks as soon as he arrives.

“I have one remaining in my kit,” Ignis replies quickly as he pulls his first aid supplies out of the pouch clipped to the back of his belt. Usually, it’s stocked with three small vials--two potions and an antidote--and a small supply of other supplies, but he’d used one of the potions in the fight.

“Thank you,” the woman says as he offers the potion. Her hand shakes a little as she grasps it, but she doesn’t need help to remove the cap. She lifts her shirt and tugs on the bandages around her abdomen, which come away too easily in Ignis’ opinion. The potion does wonders for the wound underneath, though, even though it still isn’t fully healed.

“Is there anything else you guys need?” Gladio asks. He looks ready to offer the other potion in his own kit if need be.

The hunters shake their heads.

“I can make it to a hospital like this,” the woman says as she wraps her injury again. “I’m grateful for your help, but we actually kind of wanted something else.”

“And what would that be?” Ignis asks.

“We saw you guys take on that coeurl,” the other hunter says. “That was some pretty slick work. We’re just getting back from a hunt ourselves, but it was a little messier. The thing is, we’re supposed to head south for another one.”

Gladio makes a doubtful sound. “Doesn’t look like you guys are gonna be up for that.”

“We’re not,” the hunter agrees grimly. “There’s trouble down at the Taelpar rest stop that needs killing, though. We were supposed to team up with some other hunters and take out a pack of voreteeth, and there’s no way we’re gonna be able to do that. You guys took down that coeurl, though. We could see even from here that you’re good, so we figured it was worth a shot to see if you were up for it.”

Gladio leans close to Ignis. “Taelpar rest stop is a couple hours away from here, isn’t it? What do you think? Sounds like they need help down there if they gotta team up.”

“We likely won’t be able to return to Lestallum today, if we go,” Ignis replies. “I’m indecisive.”

The apartment that Gladio had found won’t be going anywhere any time soon, but there’s no telling when Noctis might choose to take on hunts of his own. If he leaves, though, there's little else for them to do but collect more clues in the city. But to do  _that_ , they’ll need additional funds if they want to sleep somewhere safe.

“The payment will be good,” the woman says as if sensing Ignis’ current train of thought. “It’ll be split between a few people, but Meldacio HQ is in on this one, too. They’ve got supplies for the festival backed up, there, so they’re fronting some of the reward.”

“Might do us good to help out,” Gladio says. “Another day or two out of the city probably won’t be a big deal.”

“I’ve half a mind to agree,” Ignis says. He presses his glasses up before addressing the hunters again. “Tell us where we should meet the other hunters. We can handle this in your stead.”

Their relief is palpable. The woman tells them that the other hunters might already be waiting for them and that they should speak with the server in the Crow’s Nest diner when they arrive at the rest stop. They both refuse another offer of aid, stating that someone is already coming to collect them, and they hear a car horn just a moment later. As a final favour, Gladio helps support the woman as they climb down from the haven toward the car parked on the side of the road nearby.

“We really appreciate you taking the hunt on,” she says. “Good luck out there.”

And then Ignis and Gladio are alone again, a short walk from their own vehicle with an entirely new itinerary.

“I figure this is good in the long run,” Gladio says as they walk on the shoulder of the road with only the occasional passing car for company.

“Yes, for several reasons. We’ll have more funds for our stay, and we might have an opportunity to investigate this festival, too.”

“You interested in the Festival of the Hunt?” Gladio asks. He looks at Ignis with one brow cocked.

Ignis shrugs. “I'm curious, yes. I’d like to know more about what’s involved in it. Who exactly participates, and what do they all do? Noctis is a hunter, too; he may be participating.”

“Hm, that’s right. We should figure out where they hold this thing. I saw a lot of hunters in Lestallum, but most of them looked like they were only passing through.”

“If hunters are gathering near Lestallum and supplies are moving through southern Duscae, it could be anywhere from here to southern Cleigne. We’ll likely find answers at the rest stop.”

Climbing into the Regalia while they’re sweaty and a little bloodied is somewhat uncomfortable, but the air conditioning inside is a blessing after spending hours in the sun. Ignis drives south, back to Lenesque to collect their payment, and then, instead of turning back to Lestallum, he continues south.

They stop halfway to their destination to refuel the Regalia, but also to properly see to their injuries and restock their first aid kits. And to eat. And to change, because Ignis cannot take the smell of his own shirt any longer.

It takes them long enough that the sun is dipping low before they set off again. The road leads them through a valley with steadily thickening woods, closer and closer to the southern Duscaen arches, deeper and deeper in shade. By the time they find the Taelpar rest stop on the other side of a long tunnel, they’re narrowing missing the moonlight hours, and the lights around the small motel and the Crow's Nest diner are all the more welcoming.

“Let’s stop in at the diner first,” Gladio says before Ignis can decide whether or not to park in front of the diner or down the street at the motel. The decision made for him, Ignis then focuses on navigating around the several other vehicles in the lot and doesn’t notice that Gladio has stiffened until he speaks up again. “Iggy, tell me you got a game plan.”

“Game plan for what?” Ignis asks after the Regalia is safely parked. He looks over to find Gladio staring through the windows of the diner. He follows Gladio’s line of sight--

\--and finds Noctis sitting in one of the booths. He has a wide grin across his face, clearly enjoying whatever he’s doing with his phone. Sitting across from him, brows drawn tight as he also focuses on his phone, is the same blond man that had been caught in a picture with Noctis. The very same one Gladio who had tripped over that morning.

Ignis quickly scans what he can see of the rest of the diner. There are only a few other patrons. He can’t deduce if any of them are hunters, but the chances are slim.

Gladio asks again, “How do you wanna play this, Ignis?”

After a split second of silence, Ignis finds that his answer needs to start from scratch. He settles his hands on the steering wheel again, even though he has no intention of moving the car again any time soon. The motion brings some measure of peace to his mind. Action in a moment of inaction.

Find Noctis. Bring him home.

Take care of him.

But, they’ve had no choice but to accept that there are complications obstructing them. Obligations, necessities.

Noctis very likely doesn’t remember them, or anything about his life before--before whatever it has become now. In all likelihood, he may not respond well to what they’ll have to explain to him. Ignis would like nothing more than for things to proceed smoothly. For Noctis to consider them as--

He needs to trust them, in any event. On the battlefield, off the battlefield. They need to succeed in this hunt. To work as a team, so that Noctis will know they’re trustworthy.

Ignis himself needs to learn more about Noctis.

“The plan is simple,” Ignis says finally. In the silence of the car, his own voice is like thunder and wind at the same time. Confident, steady, even while his breath chases after itself as soon as there are no words to slow it down. “We meet up with the other hunters, find out what details we’re missing, and then we put together a strategy.”

Gladio tilts his head a little, and Ignis wishes for a split second that they hadn’t known each for so long that Gladio can poke holes in him so quickly. But then his expression shifts minutely, as if he’s reconsidered whatever he’d been about to say. “Gotcha. He probably wouldn’t believe us if we said anything right way. Blondie’s gonna recognize me for sure, though.”

“If it comes up, you can apologize for your earlier mishap,” Ignis says airily. “Shall we go in?”

“Right behind you.”

Out of the car. Into the restaurant. The server’s attention is on them almost immediately, eyes hopeful, and he smiles happily when Ignis reports that they’ll be filling in for the injured hunters. Briefly, Ignis wonders if he’ll direct them to some unfamiliar face in the diner, or even to a room at the motel, but then he turns and calls out, “Heads up, Noctis!”

And from his booth, Noctis turns around and props an elbow up on the back of his seat, mild curiosity on his face as he drinks from a large cup with a straw.

“Thank you,” Ignis says to the server before he schools himself and approaches the table. Noctis’ expression seems to flatten somewhat as he and Gladio get closer. Behind him, his companion’s face turns an interesting shade of grey and then pink. Ignis doesn’t allow himself to falter at this.

Noctis hangs onto his straw, likely waiting for an introduction. Ignis means to give one to him, to take the first step, but then--

“Are you the substitute hunters we’ve been waiting for?” Noctis asks. His voice is deeper than Ignis had thought it would be--it’s so much like the _king’s_ \--and it carries Lestallum’s distinct accent. It’s also laced with faint impatience.

Ignis recalls, then, that Noctis has likely been waiting all afternoon. He glances over at Gladio, who seems to be having trouble keeping a smile from spreading across his lips, and then clears his throat. “Yes, we are. My apologies for being late. My name is Ignis. This is--”

Gladio interjects with a friendly wave. “Gladio. How about you guys?”

“Prompto,” the blond man says, waving back. His eyes flick back and forth between Ignis and Gladio, so much so that Ignis wonders exactly how terribly Gladio had managed to unintentionally intimidate him, but he also relaxes incrementally at the same time. “Yo.”

Noctis spares them another look over and waves two of his fingers as he introduces himself. His face remains carefully blank. Whether it’s because this is his usual temperament, or because he recalls the fact that Ignis had been sitting in the driver’s seat when he’d nearly been introduced in an infinitely more rude manner, Ignis cannot say.

“Mind if we join you?” Gladio asks. His tone does wonders to lighten the mood, but Noctis and Prompto still share a look that makes Ignis worry that they’ll be refused, right up until Prompto nods and says brightly, “Yeah, sure!”

Prompto slides over toward the window, giving Ignis plenty of space and then some. Ignis makes a note in the back of his mind as he takes a seat, filing it away with the photos of Noctis in the report where Prompto could not be cropped out. He and Noctis are undoubtedly close, and they might have to gain some measure of trust from him as well.

The table air around the table becomes awkward in the time it takes Gladio to sit down, and Ignis sets out with renewed determination to cut it at the bud. First and foremost, they all have a job to do.

“I’m afraid Gladio and I were drafted into the hunt on short notice, and so we don’t have all the details,” he starts pragmatically. “Care to fill us in?”

Prompto immediately reaches for a camera lying on the end of the table as he dives into the description of a voretooth that they absolutely must see, and Gladio exchanges a quiet look with Ignis. It’s relieved, and hopeful, and glad, and it makes Ignis feel as though there is no dark place they won’t shine light in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i'll use a schedule--  
> also me, two chapters ahead and dying to share: --as a contingency of course
> 
> Edits made as of this chapter: chapter titles! Also, the following tags: canon-typical violence; anxiety.
> 
> I entertained the thought of splitting this chapter up as well, but I prefer longer chapters that sweep everything up as opposed to shorter chapters that miss half the fun, so here we are. Thanks so much for all the support so far :D I really enjoy the speculation as I get all my chocobos lined up. And we're finally getting somewhere! We're sailing! Sorta. The next chapter is also a long one, and then after that, we'll be taking lots more turns as we roll along toward the highway :)


	5. a hunt for many things

The pale turquoise wallpaper in their motel room is kind of peeling in some places. The wall itself looks like it’s been in service for more than fifty years and is now starting to get real tired of holding up the roof. That’s only the first reason that Gladio doesn’t punch it.

The second reason is that they kind of want their neighbours to like them and not think they’re batshit. Prompto already looks like he just needs one more sign to bolt and disappear into the woods.

Gladio still needs to move, though. He needs  _action_. Energy is burning in his veins, a knock-out combination of excitement and triumph. In the morning, they hunt. With Noctis.

It still feels like whatever stroke of luck put them here is going to get dashed soon, less than an hour after they separated to get some rest before they roll out in the morning. He doesn’t know what he’d expected when they finally able to find him, but it’s been a long time since he’d seen those eyes outside of a picture or a foggy dream, too long to pretend to know exactly what kind of man that little kid he remembers grew up into.

The man he’d sat next to for just over an hour had been confident. Open to discussion, but wary, too. If Gladio had to guess, he’d say Noctis recognized them--or at least Ignis--from the few seconds he spent in front of their car and, with his partner’s twitchiness to wrangle, reacted accordingly. Gladio can’t fault him for that.

Noctis is a fighter, a hunter, with experience under his belt, too. It had shown in everything from the way he discussed possible strategies to the musculature of his arms. That gives Gladio some sense of satisfaction--Noctis had survived against the odds and were something to happen again he’d no doubt put up a good fight.

And he’s a good man. Gladio wants to believe that. From the way he’d stressed the danger posed by their marks and his interaction with Prompto, it looks like he grew up… okay. Healthy and happy; raised by people whom Gladio would have thanked were it not for what they learned in Alstor.

Noctis has grown up into someone Gladio wants to  _know_ again. And he will, tomorrow.

He finally settles for pushups in front of the old television, clicked on but set to a low volume for the sake of white noise. Ignis folds himself into a chair with his phone nearby. Gladio can tell by the way his brow slowly furrows deeper and deeper that he’s written, deleted, and rewritten whatever he’s tapping away at several times now. Eventually, he drops his phone on the stand next to the chair and eyes the beds nearby.

“We shouldn’t stay up too late,” he says. Not that they’re in the habit of doing so (they are, actually--) but it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself to get into bed rather than remind the both of them.

“Do a couple sets with me,” Gladio says mid-rep. “You’ll sleep easier tired.”

“A couple sets would hardly be enough, in that case,” Ignis murmurs. He doesn’t move.

Gladio snorts. “Okay. What _will_ do the trick, then?”

“Nothing,” Ignis answers. Then, “Hunting. Having something to report to His Majesty other than, yes, we’ve located your son, and he’s lived an entire life out here.”

“He’s only twenty,” Gladio reminds him. Noctis has lived most of his life out here--all but a few of his earliest years--but there’s still much more of it ahead.

“Long enough to lose his adoptive parents, evidently.”

“You think it’ll be a problem?” Gladio asks. He comes to rest on his belly and props his chin up on the back of his hand. “Sounds to me that without parents, he’d be less reluctant to leave.”

“I agree, but the fact remains that he’s an adult now. He’s built his own idea of the future, and I doubt being a prince factors in.” Ignis sighs and removes his glasses to rub one eye. “I’m simply reviewing what we know to create better plans and contingencies. Don’t mind me.”

Gladio very nearly doesn’t mind him. He’s more than familiar with Ignis’ thought processes; his mind is wicked sharp and just as quick, and he strives to be prepared for any situation. Gladio’s watched from the doorway of many conference rooms as he’s made mince-meat out of lesser prepared mortals amongst various levels of Insomnia’s government.

They are, however, in a motel practically in the ass end of nowhere, and it’s getting late.

“Let’s not think too far ahead,” he suggests, shrugging. “Tomorrow, we gotta be ready for the hunt. It’s gonna be the kind of crash course that Crownsguard training only brushed on.”

Ignis nods slowly. The battle’s not quite won on the overthinking front, but at least the gears are shifting. “Quite. Our mark is no ordinary pack, and we have yet to see how Noctis and Prompto handle themselves in battle. We must stay on our toes.”

“Right. Tomorrow,” Gladio adds.

“Tomorrow.” Ignis slips his glasses back on before standing up and crossing the room, preparing for bed. Gladio pushes up one last time and gets up, too.

They have a plan, sort of. It’s the kind of plan that hunters are well versed in making, apparently. Rest up, then wake up early and hope they don’t have to trek too far to find their mark. According to the intelligence that Noctis and Prompto gathered earlier, though, that won’t be much of a problem. Without the knowledge of where exactly everything will go down, though,  there’s not much else to it.

Noctis likes to fight up close and personal with swords and daggers, and Gladio can’t bring himself to be surprised about that. He has a couple vague memories, faint moments in the fog of his childhood, of roughhousing once or twice with the young prince. Prompto, on the other hand, is a sharpshooter, which explains the muscles in his arms and shoulders. They have a variety of different tactics they’re used to employing against a voretooth pack, ones that Gladio and Ignis are capable of adapting to. They’ll most likely end up fighting in the woods, too, which carries its own pros and cons for all of them.

Then there’s the fact that Noctis never mentioned using magic, but Ignis and Gladio are both certain that he can--

\--and now  _he’s_ thinking in circles, too.

He turns over in bed to look over at Ignis through the darkness of the room, a silent accusation in the narrowing of his eyes. Ignis glances at him and hums knowingly.

“Try not to overthink before bed,” he whispers, the cheeky bastard.

 

\--

 

Dawn brings cool air and fog to the Taelpar rest stop. The mist hangs low to the ground, swirling faintly around Gladio’s ankles when he steps outside. Ignis is awake, too, but has opted to make breakfast instead of running laps up and down the road, even though the weather is good for it.

He’s not the only one out this early, though. The door of the motel room to his right is shut tight and the curtains in the window are drawn, but to his left, Gladio spots Prompto in the parking lot. He stands out easily as one of the only other living souls outside, and he’s stretching his legs next to an old, black car.

Gladio recognizes it as the same one Noctis had been pictured in. He can see obvious wear and tear on the aged and well-used car, but it’s still in good condition to Gladio’s eye. Clean and shiny where the dust of the woods hasn’t settled. The Model L Vixen is no Regalia but in comparison… Gladio almost wants to laugh. Noctis could be driving any old jalopy, but he’s got a car with style instead.

Gladio scuffs his heels on the gravel a bit as he approaches. “Hey, Prompto.”

Prompto almost loses his balance as he straightens up, even though he’s using the side of Noctis’ car to steady himself. He’s all bright smiles and finger guns, but Gladio can tell there’s still some underlying tension to cut through. “Hey! Gladio, right? Morning, dude.”

“Morning,” Gladio returns. “You always up this early?”

“I try to be.” Prompto claps his hands lightly. “Gotta get the blood pumping. Trying to keep up a routine, y’know?”

“Oh, I know it.” Gladio’s all about routine. Buoyed by a successful opening, he takes a chance in leaning against the car. “Listen, about yesterday--”

And there it is, that thinly veiled mortification. “Oh, yeah, I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.”

“Nope.” Gladio shakes his head quickly.  “I wanted to say sorry, too. Just didn’t want to bring it up at the table. I wasn’t looking where I was going, either, so it was partially my fault, that’s all.”

Prompto blinks up at him. “Oh.”

“So, yeah. Sorry for knocking you over.”

Prompto’s shoulders drop, one after the other. For someone who seems capable of carrying around a lot of excess weight in anxiety, it sure dissipates fast, leaving nothing but a sunny grin. “Hey, nobody actually got hurt, right? It’s totally fine.”

Prompto bounces lightly on the balls of his feet as he speaks, but it’s no longer the energy of someone who wants to take the first chance he can get to run off--or, it is, but it’s not fearful. He’s itching to get on with his routine. Gladio kind of is, too.

“You’re gonna run, right?” he asks, gesturing to the quiet road. “Mind having company?”

Prompto actually looks excited about the offer. “Sure! I can never get Noctis to come with me, so I’m usually on my own.” And then he’s moving, jogging across the lot with a spark in his step like he can barely wait to give his energy an outlet. Gladio follows him.

They get on the road, and the strip that runs through the rest area is just long enough that they can make a good run out of pacing back forth along it a few times. Prompto sets an easy pace, likely to test the waters, which Gladio is grateful for. It’s easier to talk than it was while nearly sprinting in Lestallum.

“So, you and Noctis,” he starts. “You guys been hunting together for a while?”

Prompto nods. “For a couple years, now, yeah. What about you? And Ignis?”

“We haven’t hunted for long, but Iggy and I go way back.”

“Same! I mean, Noctis and I. We met when we were kids and it was like _bam!_ Best friends.”

Gladio feels kind of like Ignis. Digging around, navigating conversation for indirect clues. “No kidding?”

“Yep! Noctis has been kicking my  _ass_ at video games for like over ten years now. That’s fine, though, cause I kick his ass at having a healthy sleep schedule.”

“Not much of a morning person, I take it?”

“More of a ‘the Six gave us sleep and it’s my right to use it anytime I want’ kind of person.”

Prompto trails off, and Gladio lets the silence stretch on for a few more minutes. Ignis was right--they’re pretty close. They’ve known each other only a few years less than Gladio and Ignis have. He’s not sure how much Prompto will factor into their mission as a result, but Gladio finds it unlikely that they’re going to be able to just snap the glue off of Noctis’ and Prompto’s hips and go on their merry way back to Insomnia.

Prompto breaks the silence next. “Hey, do you mind if I ask what got you into hunting?”

“You kind of just did,” Gladio says. He tries to imagine what kind of story Ignis would spin.

Prompto chuckles sheepishly. “I guess so. It’s just--” he gestures toward the Regalia as they lap around past the motel again. “--it doesn’t look like you need to. Your car alone kind of puts literally everything else to shame.”

“Doesn’t mean we don’t need money,” Gladio points out. “We got a nice car, sure, but it costs to maintain it.”

“Oh, for sure, I totally get it. Our car costs an arm and a leg sometimes.”

“It pays, it keeps us sharp, and it helps people,” Gladio continues. “What’s not to like?”

“The looming threat of death at the jaws of daemons?” Prompto offers, only half joking.

Gladio huffs out a laugh. “If it’s always looming, why are you out here? No offence, but you don’t look like a hunter at first glance.”

“Uh, yeah, because you’re only glancing. Also, I don’t have my gear on. Noct and I kick ass and take names when we’re actually dressed. You’ll see.”

“I look forward to it.”

They let silence fall again, and it’s almost companionable. They pick up the pace for a bit, running alongside each other. Prompto’s wearing that brace on his knee again, covering the majority of an ugly scar that Gladio kind of wants to hear the story behind, but his gait remains smooth. Eventually, they slow down to a jog again, their exercise winding down. As they come back around to the motel, Gladio opens his mouth to ask if Prompto has any plans for breakfast--because Ignis has almost certainly prepared more than the two of them need, just in case--but then the door to the room that Prompto and Noctis had disappeared into last night swings open.

Noctis stands in the threshold, almost entirely dishevelled. Rat’s nest hair, wrinkled tee, loose sweats, the whole nine yards. He squints at Prompto with the sort of deep contempt that Gladio has only seen on feuding aristocrats, and Gladio decides to let Prompto take the lead as they cross the parking lot.

“Hey, buddy!” Prompto greets, seemingly ignorant of the storm in Noctis’ eyes. “Morning!”

Noctis grumbles, and Gladio only just catches what he says. “You changed my alarm.”

“Sorry,” Prompto says. Gladio’s heard cats who sounded more apologetic. “Early start was the plan, remember?”

Noctis’ nose manages to scrunch up even further than it had already been as he looks down at the phone in his hand. Gladio does some mental numbers and decides that it must still be before seven. Noctis yawns deeply, and his whole body sags a little on the exhale, all signs of tension fading away. “Yeah. Breakfast is ready.”

And then he sinks back into the dimness of his and Prompto’s room, leaving the doorway empty for Prompto, who gives Gladio a thumbs up over his shoulder.

“Wow,  _really_ not a morning person,” Gladio says.

Prompto laughs. “Yeah, told ya. Don’t worry, though. We’ll be ready to go right on time. See you after breakfast.”

“Later, then.”

They return to their respective rooms. Ignis has made sure that theirs is much better lit with open curtains and lights. He’s also prepared a healthy amount of toast, eggs, and sausages, and definitely looks ready to make more. He watches Gladio from the stove expectantly, spatula in hand.

“They’re having breakfast,” Gladio says, waving toward the wall they share with Noctis and Prompto as he makes for the washroom. “Noctis apparently nurses a strong grudge against the morning hours, but he made food for them, and Prompto says they’ll be ready on time.”

“You spoke with them on your way in?”

“Had a run with Prompto, actually.”

“One that went smoother, I take it.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll let you in on the details after I get out of the shower.”

“Please do.”

He showers quickly. By the time he’s done, Ignis has cleaned up the cooking utensils and set the table. They sit down to eat, and Gladio relays what he’d heard from Prompto. Hunting partners with a friendship that runs ten years strong--Prompto’s reaction to Noctis’ seemingly unforgiving glare is all the proof Gladio needs of that, too. He hadn’t faltered in the least, not even a twitch. Meanwhile, Gladio’s pretty sure that all he’ll have to do is give the guy a hint of a frown and he’ll be on edge.

But with Noctis, he knows exactly what’s a bite, and what’s just a bark.

That makes Ignis go a little quiet. It’s the kind of silence that he generally folds up and hides away quickly so that people don't know that it’s stuck to him at all, but it doesn’t escape Gladio’s notice because it’s stuck to him, too. It’s an irrational, bothersome train of thought--the thought that they knew Noctis before--

\--but now, _sixteen_ years on, they really do know nothing. Not next to Prompto, anyway. Gladio had stood behind him outside, trying to calculate the best time to hop in and diffuse the situation looming on the horizon, only to realize that there hadn’t been anything there. Ignis probably would have done the same.

They’ve got some ways to go. Crash course, indeed.

So, they polish off the food--delicious; show-stopping every time--and get ready for a day of fun in the sun. In the woods, while under threat of attack from wild animals.

“Hey, Ignis,” Gladio pipes up just before they’re considered ready. “Lemme run something by you.”

“Not about the hunt?”

“Actually, yeah.” Gladio summons his greatsword into his outstretched hand. It’s heavy, but with its perfect balance in his grip, he hardly notices. “His Majesty’s helped us a lot, allowing us to use a bit of magic, too, but what if we kept it on the down-low for now? I’ve got the straps to carry our weapons stashed with the camping gear.”

“You planned for this before we left Insomnia,” Ignis says, curious.

“Wasn’t going to at first,” Gladio says, shrugging. “But then the king offered, so I figured I’d still be prepared otherwise. Maybe Noctis would be more comfortable using his own magic if he saw somebody else with their own tricks, but we’re coming from a different angle, aren’t we? We can just be Iggy and Gladio, stupidly rich hunters, instead of Ignis and Gladiolus, search party.”

Ignis considers the plan for a moment, but Gladio can tell it’s mostly for show. He’d taken one look at Noctis and Prompto last night and Gladio had almost felt the shift, the moment where Ignis had to rebuild his strategy because the one he’d been running on cracked. He still doesn’t fully understand the change, or why Ignis had balked so suddenly, but he hasn’t had any reason to distrust Ignis’ judgment yet. If Ignis wants to take a detour, Gladio can swing it.

In the half moment of silence that it takes Ignis to come to a conclusion, they hear sound from the room next door, immediately on their right. Gladio distinctly hears Prompto yelp loud enough that the thin walls do almost nothing to muffle him, and then, immediately after, there’s the sound of what can only be Noctis bursting out laughing for a solid two seconds.

And then Ignis’ daggers appear in his hands and he says, “We managed without magic before this trip, I think we can do so again.”

“I’ll grab the rest of the gear, then.”

Ignis follows him out to the Regalia. The air has warmed somewhat, the mist almost completely dissipated. It only takes them a few more minutes to finish getting ready, and that seems to be about as long as it takes Noctis and Prompto to do the same. They both appear outside their room just before Gladio starts wondering if he should knock on their door, and they look several times more put together than they did when he last saw them an hour ago.  

And Prompto really wasn’t kidding then, either. They’re in sturdy boots suited for hiking, and the rest of their outfits are built for easy movement and light protection. Noctis has a sword and a dagger on his belt--which, he supposes, answers the question of whether or not he knows how to use his own Armiger--and Gladio’s almost certain he can see the shape of another dagger up his right sleeve. Prompto has a pistol at his hip and a rifle on his back, and a pair of goggles around his neck which might actually be for night vision.

They look like hunters. And not in the way they’d looked in the pictures, either. Now, they look like they know their shit.

Prompto is bubbly as he trots down the three steps to the gravel parking lot. Noctis stays perched on the top step, eyeing Gladio and Ignis cooly--and the Regalia, Gladio notes. He doesn’t look so wary this time around, like he’ll whip out that hidden dagger if his new teammates put a single toe over some invisible line. He just seems guarded in the way anyone would be with new people.

Getting in on Prompto’s good side seems to have been a good idea, after all.

In fact, Noctis is practically amicable as he drifts down the steps with a yawn and then asks, “Ready to make tracks?”

Prompto salutes. Gladio nods. Ignis says, “After you,” and then the hunt begins.

 

\--

 

It doesn’t take long for Noctis to lead them to the area where Prompto had caught a picture of the ailing voretooth. The woods are quiet and peaceful, though, and from there it takes nearly another hour before they find any other members of the pack, which doesn’t surprise Ignis. Unpredictability comes part and parcel with some creatures, especially when their health has declined so harshly.

They wind up following a trail heading north. Ignis and Gladio walk the line between following closely and fanning out near Noctis. Prompto, meanwhile, bounces back and forth from walking at his side, then behind him, then, for a longer time, out in front.

Ignis catches Gladio’s eye twitch every time Prompto changes position, usually without warning, but something about the arrangement must work because Noctis changes direction whenever Prompto gives a signal. Ignis doesn’t know what  _prompts_ the signal until Noctis follows Prompto to a small copse of trees and then points out a set of deep gouges in one of the trunks for the rest of the group to see.

They’ve been following creature tracks, and while Noctis keeps an eye on the trail, Prompto has been scouting around him for potential danger. Ignis takes note of the signs Prompto has seen and quietly devotes himself to a similar task while Gladio keeps his eye peeled for danger in their immediate vicinity.

Prompto is also the one who spots the voreteeth first and immediately draws back to slap Noctis’ shoulder. They duck behind a nearby boulder, and gesture for Ignis and Gladio to come down as well.

“What are we looking at?” Gladio asks as soon as they’re huddled close.

Prompto holds up two fingers. “Just two, so far. They’re looking around for food, and they’re not looking so hot.”

Noctis peeks around the boulder for a few seconds and makes a short, disquiet sound.

“Bad news?” Gladio presses.

“Just another thing that doesn’t add up about them,” Noctis explains as he huddles in again. “They usually hunt in at least threes or fours. There’s gotta be more nearby, but I can’t see them from here.”

He nods around the boulder, silently giving Ignis and Gladio the chance to see for themselves. They do--and the disgust that curls in the pit of Ignis’ belly is almost instinctual. He’s seen sick animals before. He’s seen the photo on Prompto’s camera. The pair of voreteeth sniffing and pawing the ground hardly fifty feet from them are far beyond sick, however. Their flesh is mottled with sores and rot, and the fluid that runs down their bodies like cracks is closer to the colour of oil than blood.

This hunt is going to be an act of mercy more than anything else.

“They’re sorta downwind of us, though,” Prompto says after a moment. “Got a plan before they sniff us out?”

Ignis recalls the tactics they’re described briefly last night. “I suspect your usual strategy would work,” he says. “With Gladio and I, we can fan out around them and pen them in.”

“Prompto takes first shot,” Noctis continues, nodding, “and the rest of us come in like a net. Should take no time at all to overwhelm them.” He nudges Gladio and gestures to the underbrush to their left, then points Ignis in the opposite direction. “You guys circle around, I’ll come up from here. Prom--climb a tree, I guess.”

“I’ll go in first,” Gladio says, tapping the shield on his back. “After Prompto takes his shot, I can stun the other, that way they’ll both be distracted from you two.”

It’s a good enough plan. They all agree, and then they split up. The woods aren’t so thick that they can’t still see each other as they dart from behind scattered boulders and trees to find an optimal opening position. Prompto, for his part, does not climb a tree, but he does retreat farther up the hill behind them so that he can duck behind a fallen trunk with his rifle.

Ignis comes to a stop behind a sprawling bush. He can still see Gladio on the other side of the pair of beasts, as well as Noctis, peeking out from behind the boulder. They nod, and then wait. A scarce moment later, the voretooth nearest to Ignis lifts its head and scents the air. It turns its head toward Ignis, searching with eyes dulled by cataracts, and just before Ignis can prepare to defend himself early, a shot rings out, and the voretooth sprawls on the ground with a hole in its shoulder.

Gladio bursts from cover, slamming into the second voretooth just like he had against the coeurl. Then Ignis is out with his daggers, and Noctis appears almost as if he’d flown. Ignis nearly thinks  _t_ _here, he warped_ \--but he’s seen Glaives warp before. Magic coats them like a second skin for an instant and then falls away like a shower of sparks, burning the air as they go. Noctis, it seems, is just that quick on his feet.

He can see that Gladio is impressed, too. Despite his morning lethargy, Noctis dodges and moves in to retaliate with no trouble, only gritting his teeth when strikes that should be deadly hardly seem to give the voreteeth pause. That little oddity concerns Ignis, too--logically, more than one strike to such a weak neck should not be necessary--but with four hunters fighting together, they manage to avoid any dire consequences of the beasts’ unnatural constitution.

One voretooth falls, finally accepting death under Gladio’s blade. Then, before Ignis can slit the throat of the other, it lunges at Noctis. Ignis knows he won’t be able to dodge, not midstep, and he almost curses--but then Gladio is there and the voretooth’s teeth meet the flat side of his greatsword, gnawing uselessly.

“Get in there, Iggy,” Gladio shouts as the voretooth swipes instead at his thigh, tearing through his pants. Ignis goes, throwing one dagger into its back, and then lunging in with the other. The voretooth sags to the ground and doesn’t move again.

Gladio sighs and shifts to the side to inspect his newest wound and Noctis looks like he might be about to thank Gladio for intervening, but then they all hear the crack of Prompto’s rifle, and Prompto’s high pitched voice echoing down the hill, “ _Shit!_ ”

Noctis pivots before the echo even reaches them, and his voice is sharp as he shouts, “ _Prompto!_ ”

Prompto all but launches himself over the fallen tree that had been his cover and rolls a short distance down the hill. Hot on his heels is a third voretooth. It looks just as sick as the rest of its pack, not to mention entirely intent on tearing one of Prompto’s limbs off.

It doesn’t get the chance to. Noctis’ hidden dagger slips into his hand, and Ignis knows what he’s about to do just from the way he bends his knees at the same time because there’s no possible way any normal lunge can close the distance in time. His body shimmers, the air around him crackles and glows as he extends his arm back to throw his dagger--and then he’s gone. The air where he’d stood  _pops_ and burns, the afterimage of Noctis’ body fading away, and Ignis knows from sound alone that Noctis has tackled the voretooth before it could tear into Prompto. For the seconds following his disappearance, though, Ignis only sees the barely contained glee in Gladio’s eyes. _There, he warped_.

The rumours, as they’d already known, are undeniably, irrefutably true. Noctis can use magic.

They both snap out of it quickly. Noctis has left his dagger in the voretooth’s shoulder to slash at it with his sword, and Prompto has dropped his rifle in favour of his pistol. By the time the ambusher drops dead, its body is riddled with bullet holes and lacerations.

“You good, Prom?” Noctis asks quickly as he takes one of Prompto’s hands and pulls him up from the ground. His hand moves to Prompto’s shoulder, gripping tight.

“Yeah,” Prompto breathes. “Yeah, I’m fine. It snuck up on me, but I caught onto it just in time. Thanks, buddy.”

Noctis pats his shoulder before bending to pick up the fallen rifle with a grin. “Yeah, just in time once again.”

“Just gimme the rest of the day,” Prompto counters. “We’ll be even by the time we’re done here.”

“You’re sure there are more nearby?” Gladio asks, sounding for all the world like they hadn’t witnessed a form of magic that no ordinary hunter should be able to use.

“Gotta be,” Noctis answers confidently. He glances between Gladio and Ignis, eyes keen, and Ignis isn’t sure if he’s gauging their reactions to his magic, or judging the skills they displayed. It’s probably both. “They were tough, sure, but a pack that size is still too small to cause the kind of trouble they’ve had here. We should keep looking.”

“Perhaps we should rest up a bit first,” Ignis suggests. Truthfully, he itches to keep moving, to have another chance to fight alongside Noctis before it slips away--but he knows it won’t. Noctis is sure that the hunt isn’t over, and Ignis is inclined to agree. “It won’t do to wander around the woods bleeding.”

“Yeah, you got a little something there, Noct,” Prompto says, poking at a deep stain spreading on Noctis’ sleeve. Prompto himself looks fine aside from the dirt on his shirt from his tumble down the hill.

“I gotta down a potion, too,” Gladio says, reaching for his first aid kit. Along with the wound on his thigh, there’s blood running down his arm, and there seems to be a bruise forming on his abdomen. Ignis can feel blood trickling down his back from a cut on his shoulder, along with several nicks on his legs. He doesn’t feel nauseous or unsteady, though, nor does anyone else seem to be suffering from the effects of poison, which is a relief.

“Anyone else bring trail mix?” Noctis asks casually as they sit down along the fallen tree for a short rest, their wounds reduced to stings in the backs of their minds. A small trail mix packet appears in his hand from one of his pockets, and he dumps a third of it into his hand, and then into his mouth.

“Still can’t believe you won’t eat my salads,” Prompto grumbles around his own snack, “but you’ll eat  _trail mix_. You even left me with the boring kind.”

“Trail mix doesn’t have carrots in it,” Noctis deadpans, shrugging.

Gladio guffaws and digs into his pack like he hadn’t been waiting for an opening to break out their stock of quality hiking snacks. “Here,” he says, reaching around behind Noctis to nudge Prompto with a granola bar. “It’s got fruit in it.”

“Dude, you sure?” Prompto asks, even though his interest is clear as day. “I don’t wanna burn through all your rations.”

“We have plenty to spare,” Ignis informs him from Gladio’s other side. He’d made sure of it and is especially glad for his foresight, too. Noctis doesn’t seem to mind the taste of his snack, but it seems more like the speed with which he eats it is less about enjoyment and more about getting it over with.

That’s all Prompto needs for permission, too. He accepts the offered bar, unwraps it, and takes a large bite out of it. He only chews twice before making a pleased noise. “Oh, you got some good stuff,” he says through the granola.

“Would you like one, too, Noctis?” Ignis asks.

Noctis hums, considering the remaining trail mix in his hand. “Maybe a bit.”

Gladio reaches to grab another bar but then pauses as Prompto snaps a piece off his own bar and drops it into Noctis’ waiting hand. Noctis pops it into his mouth, and his eyebrows tick upward for a split second as he chews.

“That’s not bad,” he says after swallowing. “Thanks.” He looks almost straight ahead as he speaks, so it’s anyone’s guess as to whether he’s thanking Prompto or Gladio. He also makes no indication that he wants any more before he finishes off the rest of his trail mix.

Ignis commits the moment to memory nevertheless. He can work with a dislike of vegetables, however exasperating that may turn out to be.

They return to the hunt shortly after. They search the area for tracks that might lead them to the rest of the pack, estranged as it seems to be from its own members, but they wind up moving in circles more often than not. Noon comes and goes before they come across another voretooth.

It’s lying on the ground, still as stone. It doesn’t seem so far gone as the others they’d killed, but they’re wary of it all the same. Prompto spies into the woods nearby and comes to the conclusion that there is only the one, and only then does Noctis approach it. He kneels a few feet away, tilting his head this way and that as he inspects it, and then draws his dagger with a sigh.

“It’s still alive,” he reports. There’s a soft pity in his voice, the shade of his head. “Sick, too, but I guess it didn’t take like the others.”

“Or perhaps it has yet to advance into the same stage,” Ignis muses. Noctis shrugs.

“Maybe. Let’s save it the trouble, though.” And he does just that. It only takes one slice, quick and quiet.

“I wonder what brought it on,” Gladio murmurs as they continue on. “Never seen animals get sick like this. Maybe it’s some kind of virus?”

“Perhaps. It looks like an infection to me,” Ignis replies. What type of infection, though, he has no idea. The Crown City isn’t exactly chock full of wild animals, but he knows enough about them to know that these creatures’ ability to survive under such conditions is strange. “Or something to that effect, at least. There’s no sign that anything else has been inflicted with it.”

“Or if it has, it’s not a problem like these guys are.”

“Indeed. I wonder if I could find any other records of this phenomenon.”

“Thinking of including that in a report?” Gladio asks, very nearly speaking under his breath. Noctis is far enough ahead that they can whisper without being heard accurately, and Prompto is even farther away, but Gladio is careful all the same.

“For curiosity’s sake, that's all,” Ignis says dismissively. There’s nothing quite like being prepared for the future, after all. If they experience one thing, there’s no telling if they’ll experience it again.

It’s Gladio who eventually finds a fresher trail for them to follow, one that takes them south, back to where the woods run thin. The tracks turn messy then, but not disorganized, and Noctis takes one look at them and says, “They were hunting something. You can see where their paws really dug in when they started running. Let’s be careful up here.”

They pass by an old, fading sign that introduces them to Scotham Clough, where a narrow cleft curves out of sight through a hill. Large rocks have fallen in heaps along the walls of the valley, and it is through their cover that the group sneaks along, searching for signs of recent activity.

They creep along the gentle bend, and it’s there that Gladio all but drags Ignis to cover while Prompto backs into Noctis and shoves them both down behind a boulder on the opposite side of the path. He wiggles three fingers in the air, then pantomimes a creature eating something. Noctis takes a peek ahead, and then tugs on Prompto’s arm. They move back silently, and Ignis and Gladio follow them.

“So we’ve got three more, and they’re distracted, right?” Gladio asks once they’re a safe distance away.

Prompto nods. “Yep. This is probably the last of them, too. Five or six is usually about as big as packs get if they don’t have babies, and uh… I don’t think they’re really in the shape for that, so, this is it.”

“Thought of a plan?”

“Wait for them to come out,” Noctis answers. He glances up at the valley walls with a grimace. “Kind of a shitty spot for a fight.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Gladio says approvingly. “We’re way better off ambushing them when there’s actually some space to swing a sword.”

“Let’s get into position, then,” Ignis says, already backtracking. He’s sure he’d seen the perfect perch for Prompto on their way in. “I don’t imagine it will take long for them to finish their meal.”

They return to the mouth of the valley, where Prompto scrambles up the hillside to have a bird’s eye view with his rifle. Ignis and Gladio take what little cover is provided to them by the surrounding landscape, while Noctis climbs up the opposite side of the hill. He doesn’t offer an explanation aside from two thumbs up as for how he intends to join the fray from there, but Ignis is confident now that he doesn’t need one. Noctis had performed a warp strike before, and while the question of whether or not he’d been expecting some backlash still remains, doing so again is the only reason Ignis can see for him choosing such a hiding spot.

Time passes quietly. Gladio is restless, and Ignis spots Prompto shift from one knee to his belly and back. Noctis yawns perpetually. He exchanges brief gestures with Prompto several times, but they aren’t any signals that Ignis is familiar with. Inside jokes, he concludes when the two seem to laugh to themselves. Prompto blows a kiss, and Noctis mimics crushing it in his fist.

Whatever reaction Prompto usually has to that is cut off when he snaps back to attention.  The rest of them follow suit, waiting for their chance to attack as the voreteeth emerge, giving Ignis pause as they do so. Two of them don’t seem so terribly off in comparison to the rest of their pack. The third, however, looks so horribly distorted that Ignis doesn’t realize that it’s the same species until he takes a second, closer look at it. Its skin has gone a deep shade of violet that speaks of nothing but disease, and there are raised barbs lining its back and tail, sharp and deadly in the afternoon light.

Gladio looks toward Ignis, teeth bared in disgust, eyes questioning. Ignis has only a minute shake of his head to offer. Even the shape of the creature is wrong, and he’d gladly provide the reason why if he knew. All he knows for certain is that they need to kill it.

The voreteeth are slow as Prompto takes aim. Seemingly content after their meal, they don’t notice the hunters lying in wait until Prompto fires. He successfully hits the largest and most awful of the three, and it staggers, but if it has been otherwise bothered by the shot, it doesn’t show it. It howls, and its companions echo it as they set their sights on Gladio as soon as he rises out of cover. The two of them leap in his direction, leaving the third alone only for as long as it takes Noctis to throw his dagger down and follow it in a flicker of blue and white sparks.

And then, Ignis has a split second to decide who to aid, because Gladio is being flanked by two beasts, but the third does not give Noctis the chance to retrieve his dagger from its back before it bodyslams him and sends him sprawling across the ground, into the ravine. Prompto is firing again at it, but Ignis knows that nothing short of a bullet in its skull will allow him to stop the voretooth from tearing into Noctis before he can stand again.

“Go, Ignis!” Gladio shouts, his voice rough as he fends off two voreteeth. “Help Noctis!”

Ignis flies out of cover, knowing that there hadn’t really been a decision to make. Not truly.

Before he can do so much as throw a dagger--do anything to distract the monster between him and Noctis--Noctis roars, “ _Stay back!_ ”

It’s an order, so severe and forceful that Ignis pauses almost involuntarily. He only lets it stop him for a second, though, because there’s no order that he'll be able to use to justify the act of leaving Noctis in danger, neither to the king nor himself. He keeps going, hearing Prompto’s voice faintly as he echoes the order. Noctis shouts, not with pain but exertion, and that’s all Ignis focuses on.

It happens in the blink of an eye. Ignis is running toward a demonic voretooth bearing down on his prince, and then the ravine is engulfed in flames.

Ignis skids to a halt, nearly tripping on a stone under his heel, just as a rush of hot air blows past his face. The heat is so intense that sweat breaks out on his forehead almost immediately, and his clothes start sticking to his skin. He hears gunfire, still, but he’s not sure where the bullets are landing. All he can really see are the flames painting the canyon walls, the voretooth scrambling back, tongues of fire licking its skin, and Noctis, wreathed in the deep orange light of his magic as he rises to his feet. His body is awash in a faint white shimmer, resistant to the fire surrounding him.

Magic. Ignis sees the echo of a memory in Noctis, the hazy image of King Regis holding fire in his palm, no flasks required. Elemancy in its purest form. Sparks whispering the promise of danger to anyone except their master.

Ignis comes back to himself when Noctis draws his sword and shouts, “Let’s finish it off!”

The fire is already fading from the canyon, leaving the earth cracked and blackened, but the heat remains, as does the damage it inflicted on the voretooth. It lashes out with its barbed tail and bloody claws, but its movements are uneven and easy to counter. They stagger it, knock it to the ground, and then Noctis drives his sword deep into its chest, and Ignis follows suit with both daggers. It whimpers, then gurgles, and then there’s only the harsh breathing of its killers. Even the gunfire is gone.

Gladio’s footsteps are heavy behind them, his voice gruff and breathless. “You guys okay?”

Ignis glances at himself, taking a brief inventory since they’re apparently in the clear. “Scratches, nothing more. Noctis--”

“Sorry about that, Specs,” Noctis breathes, wiping his forehead. His bangs stick at odd angles from the sweat. Ignis’ mind only sticks on the nickname for a half second.

“Sorry for what, exactly?”

Noctis gestures vaguely at himself. “Shoulda warned you things might get hot. Almost got you with some, uh, friendly fire.”

Ignis is about to tell him that he shouldn’t worry--that he’d been very nearly expecting this, even hoping for it--but then Prompto is next to them before Ignis even registers the sound of his approach.

“That was bad and you should feel bad,” he says, swatting Noctis’ arm.

Noctis winces, reacting more to Prompto’s words than his actions. “I know. I know you don’t like it, but I didn’t really have anything else.”

Prompto blinks, lashes fluttering as he stares at Noctis. “No--I meant--I’ve heard that joke like a hundred times, Noct. It was bad then and it’s bad now.”

“Kind of with him on that one,” Gladio chimes in, slow and careful, as if one wrong word will spook Noctis into the shadows of the ravine.

“Unoriginal,” Ignis agrees, keen to stop Noctis from startling further.

Noctis glances between them, his studying gaze sticking longer on Prompto. He shifts his weight and rubs the back of his neck, and then finally relaxes. “Oh. Well, sorry for almost burning you, anyway. Did you guys get the others?”

Gladio nods, and only then does Ignis see that Prompto is the only one among them without any wounds. “Prompto and I handled them while you guys were busy.” He looks to the smouldering earth all about them. “That was a pretty smooth trick.”

Noctis brushes his bangs back into place, staring straight ahead, past Ignis and Gladio. “I guess so. We should be done here.”

“Yeah,” Prompto says, nodding excitedly and throwing his hands up. “We’re alive! Let’s all down a potion and go celebrate by eating something dead.”

It’s so very  _mundane_ , the way that Noctis bends to retrieve his dagger from the charred corpse of the voretooth before he steps around it and starts trudging back to the rest stop, Prompto close at his side.

“This doesn’t concern you?” Ignis finds himself asking before he can follow. Noctis and Prompto pause, looking back with faint puzzlement.

“It’s kind of freaky,” Noctis offers. He approaches the voretooth corpse again and kneels next to it. He nudges it with the toe of his boot, and for a pile of charred flesh and bone, it has a disconcerting amount of give. “I don’t know what caused this, either.”

“But you don’t seem troubled, either.”

Noctis shrugs. “It’s a big world, isn’t it? Just because I don’t know something about it doesn’t mean another hunter won’t. I mean, we could ask Hunter Dave; he’s got way more experience, he’d probably know.”

The logic is sound, his cavalier attitude making more sense. Plenty of things Ignis hasn’t seen still exist, after all.

“There’s an archive at Meldacio HQ, too,” Prompto adds. “All the stuff hunters know, all the stuff you wanna find out. If you’re worried, and all.”

“Maybe in our free time,” Gladio says evenly. “Kinda don’t want to have to keep looking at this thing right now.”

“No kidding,” Noctis says as he lifts himself back to his feet and turns away again. “Let the daemons have it, I’ve got a date with a shower.”

Words stick in the back of Ignis’ throat, although he cannot imagine what they would be. He knows what they  _should_ be, though. Gladio knows, too. It’s written in his expression, the pointed look he sends at Noctis’ back, drawing farther and farther away.

“Tonight,” Ignis says resolutely. “We must speak with him tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are slowly, quietly getting to know each other and I'm having some good fun writing it as such. I'm working with several pillars of characterization, and the undercurrent of anxiety that almost every character in this story has is simultaneously the easiest and hardest to balance. Some are more clear cut and it's easy to show how they manage it, and some take a little more finesse, and subtlety in what characters are trying to do vs. what they're feeling overall takes a while to get, so I hope I'm doing a good job of it. 
> 
> I'm so glad to see all the reactions to them, too :D All your rad comments make me really look forward to writing these characters as they start getting tangled up more; thank you so much for the support so far!


	6. a gathering of unfinished answers

Scotham Clough isn’t too far from the rest area, but they still stop for a brief rest after they get a nice, respectable distance from the dead voreteeth. Especially the giant, super screwed up one. Prompto’s legs are dying for it when they all sit themselves down on some conveniently chair sized rocks to knock back some potions and then wash them down with sweet water and snacks.

The sky is still brilliant blue above them, but they’ve been out for long enough that it’ll start to turn soon. That they still have time for the trek back after a full day of hunting leaves Prompto with a fuzzy sense of satisfaction, making the ache in his feet bearable. It’d be perfect if not for the way Noctis tries to inch away from Prompto every time he has to shake some stray sparks out of his clothes.

Prompto caught Ignis and Gladio in the middle of a silent conversation full of rapidly shifting yet minute expressions that were, quite frankly, kinda ominous the first time Noctis paused to shake a few dying sparks out of his pant leg, but they haven’t said anything about it yet. They didn’t all fit on the same boulder, and Prompto is glad for that, too, because that leaves them all sitting far enough away from each other that they can’t hear him whispering. Probably.

He doesn’t want to leave everything to chance in front of strangers, though. He has a little more tact than that. After resolving to talk before Noctis falls asleep later, dead to the world, Prompto leans closer to Noctis to murmur in his ear.

“You all good, Noct?” he asks, nudging Noctis’ shoulder with his own. Even through his clothes, it almost feels like trying to handle his seat belt in a hot car. Noctis’ skin still simmers with the might of the fire he’d summoned, and it makes Prompto sweat just to sit next to him. It’s hardly uncomfortable in comparison to whatever distance that Noctis is trying to creep in between them, though.

“Fine,” Noctis replies, blowing air between his teeth. His bangs are too sweaty to do anything other than stick to his forehead, so there’s nothing stopping Prompto from watching his eyes narrow in pain. And he knows Noctis is in pain, too, because he reaches into his pocket and pulls out two pills, which he immediately swallows with a mouthful of water.

Prompto leans closer, frowning. Not that they don’t get headaches from time to time, but he’d seen Noctis take painkillers yesterday, and the day before. There’s usually more leeway than this--unless he’s sick. “Do you have a headache?”

“Kinda.” Noctis shrugs and a spark tumbles down from his collar. He gestures loosely at it just before it fizzles out of existence in the dirt at their feet. “It’s fine, it’ll be gone quick.”

Prompto presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth as Noctis takes another sip of water, eyes skittering to their company and back. Across from them, Ignis and Gladio are whispering back and forth with easy-going postures. Just chatting about… whatever fancy guys chat about. They’re a just a bunch of hunters, talking about nothing after a successful day of hunting. Totally.

He throws an arm around Noctis’ shoulder, imagining that it must feel like ice to him. Noctis seems to appreciate the contact on the back of his neck, anyway. “You’re gonna be okay, then? Like, you’re not getting sick, right?”

Noctis shakes his head quickly, then tenses. “No, I feel fine. It’s probably just, y’know, stress, or something. If it’s not gone by the time we get back, I’ll just take a nap and sleep it off.”

“Ah, right, the best cure of all.” Prompto says sagely, pitching his voice thinner until he sounds like an old man. It gets Noctis to smile a bit, and he takes the opportunity to shuffle over and take out some of the inches between them again. “I guess it’s my turn for dinner, too. Want anything in particular? I’m warning you, though; if you say Crow’s Nest again, I’m not paying for it. We had diner food twice yesterday.”

Noctis heaves out a dramatic groan. “We had nuts for lunch, Prom.”

“You had nuts,” Prompto retorts, poking Noctis’ side. He points at Ignis and Gladio, who glanced over at them when Noctis started whining. “But they put a granola bar in my goblin hands and I took it. So, what’ll it be? If you say nothing, it’s gonna be soup, ‘cause I’m tired.”

Noctis fixes him with a flat look. Or, he tries to. His eyelids have dropped far enough for it, but his mouth is trying to make a break from it. “I did so much more work than you. I was so useful. What did you do? You took potshots.  _And_ you still owe me. I say Crow’s Nest, your treat.”

“I already vetoed that,” Prompto squawks. “You’re gonna wreck my diet, Noct. No Crow’s Nest. Besides, I totally nailed one of those voreteeth in the head.” He sends a pleading look at Gladio. “Tell him, I totally did.”

Despite leaning close enough to Ignis that they almost look like scheming movie villains, Gladio angles himself toward them briefly with an easy nod. “He did, actually. It was a pretty good shot.”

Noctis huffs. “Okay, so you saved his ass. I’m the one who saved yours, though. No deal.” He claps his hands and chants in a complete deadpan, “Crow’s Nest, Crow’s Nest.”

The longer the ball bounces back and forth, the more laughter sneaks into Noctis’ voice, which is almost enough to make Prompto crack on its own. Sparks stop dropping out of every wrinkle and fold of Noctis’ clothes, and his skin gradually cools until it’s almost the same temperature as Prompto’s. And then, just when Prompto thinks he’s about to win, Ignis clears his throat loudly.

“If I might interrupt,” he says, even though he already has.

Noctis blinks at him owlishly. It’s kind of like watching a five-year-old challenge a wise old man. Prompto resists the urge to wince after realizing that they’d just spent that last two minutes making fools of themselves in front of a couple of almost total strangers.

“It’s my turn to make dinner,” he offers weakly. Ignis pushes his glasses up and stares at him, and it feels more like being dissected than simply being addressed. He has no idea how Noctis keeps going toe to toe with this guy.

Ignis’ expression softens almost as soon as that thought passes through Prompto’s head, though. “If you’re indecisive, perhaps you’d allow me to extend an invitation.”

“To dinner, you mean?” Prompto asks. It sounds kind of obvious, but a little bizarre at the same time. Even when they team up with hunters they know better, they’re used to retreating on their own. Not that they don’t like other hunters, but after a day like this, he and Noctis usually like flopping onto a hotel bed and watching a movie with no pants on while they eat. It’s kind of hard to do that with other people around.

“Iggy makes a mean meat pie,” Gladio says, nodding. “Or rice bowl, or fish fillet, or… anything, really. Guy loves to cook.”

Noctis visibly perks up. “Fish, you say?”

“Uh oh, you said fish,” Prompto says jokingly. “He’s gonna take you for all you got.”

“It’s certainly something I can prepare. I take it fish is a favourite?” Ignis asks curiously.

“You bet,” Noctis answers happily. He leans back a little, considering the hunters before them. “But you don’t have to do anything about that. We do this all the time.” He pokes Prompto softly with his elbow. “I’m just winding him up.”

“I think of it more as a chance to commend ourselves for our hard work,” Ignis says. “The hunt was by no means simple, but we all played our parts well.”

“We fought hard as a group,” Gladio adds. “We should celebrate as a group.”

Noctis turns back toward Prompto and lowers his voice. “What do you think?”

Prompto contemplates it more seriously for a few seconds. Last night, he’d have tried to be as casual as possible while turning them down now that they only need to stick together for as long as it takes to get their payment. But this morning, Gladio had turned out to be way more friendly than he’d thought. He ran with Prompto without breaking a sweat and didn’t even say anything about his leg, and he rolled pretty smoothly with Noctis’ early morning grumpiness. Ignis, too, keeps blindsiding him by acting more casual than his fashion sense suggests.

Prompto doesn’t want to be rude, either. If Ignis really is a good cook, and he’s offering… Prompto isn’t bad in the kitchen himself, but it’d certainly save him the effort, right? And get him off the hook for the night. He sat around a table with Ignis and Gladio before, he can do it again.

“Why not?” he says quietly, shrugging. “I don’t mind. Do you?”

“I guess not,” Noctis whispers back. “I mean, he’s offering, right?”

“Right.”

“Then, sure.”

Prompto looks back at Ignis and claps his hands together for some decisive flair. “We have reached a consensus. Which is to say, sure! We can totally do dinner.”

Ignis smiles warmly. “Excellent. I’ve just the recipe in mind, I think. Shall we return, then?”

“I guess we’ve sat here long enough,” Prompto says as he slides off the rock. “Let’s go get paid.”

“And take a shower,” Noctis says.

“Hell yeah, it’s _so_ bath time.”

 

\--

 

They return to Taelpar rest area within the hour. Their first stop is the Crow’s Nest, where they pointedly ignore the menu in favour of getting paid. Just over a thousand gil each is more than what taking out a voretooth pack would usually net them, but true to predictions, the hunt had been anything but ordinary. Now, with his and Noctis’ share together, Prompto knows that they have enough to splurge a little when they stock up on first aid supplies for the festival, which is a good feeling in and of itself.

It’s also more than enough for Ignis to go shopping for extra ingredients for dinner, too. He disappears pretty fast to do just that, freeing the rest of them up until he’s finished cooking. There’s no question about what they’ll do in the meantime. Prompto might have spent most of the fighting on his knees or his belly, but they still walked for ages through a hot and humid forest. He’s dirty and sweaty and he’d really like it if they weren’t carrying the combined stench of old sunscreen and bug spray around with them.

Noctis is twice as dirty and sweaty. Three times as much, even. More than that, the scent of fire clings to his body. The magic has long worn away, leaving a certain lethargy in its wake, but the smell of burned earth--and burned  _flesh_ \--is strong. As soon as they close the door of their motel room behind them, Prompto begins pushing Noctis toward the washroom.

“I think their car is worth more than our apartment and also both our lives,” he says. “We stink way too much to eat dinner with guys like them.”

“Yeah, you kinda smell like a chocobo,” Noctis replies. He goes without resistance, leaving a trail of gear on the closest available surfaces as he does. “But I mean, you saw Gladio, right? Cause I did. I don’t know what he smells like on a regular day, but he wasn’t doing any better than us.”

“Maybe, but they probably have some fancy ass body wash. Some designer brand that smells like a flower that was imported from Tenebrae.” Prompto is marginally more careful with his guns, laying them gently on the table that they now have no intention of eating on tonight. “We have--what do we have right now, again?”

From the washroom, Noctis calls back, “Cool grapefruit--with improved exfoliation formula.” His recitation is almost completely flat. “You know, to really get the smell of voretooth spit off your face. I think that’s good enough unless you wanna run and get something else. Wanna smell like a lumberjack instead?”

Prompto laughs loudly. “Nah, grapefruit’s fine. Don’t use all the hot water.”

“No promises.”

Noctis shuts the door and gets the shower running before Prompto can protest. He doesn’t have much energy for that, anyway. He just blasts the AC and starfishes on one of the beds, focusing on the tingling ache in his feet until Noctis floats back into the room wearing clean clothes and a towel wrapped lopsidedly around his head. He belly flops onto the bed with his phone before Prompto has the chance to move more than an arm out of his way.

“There should be enough hot water left,” he says, flipping through his apps until he opens a digital map and starts scrolling around on it. “Speaking of water--there’s time for a fishing trip before the festival begins.”

Prompto rolls off the bed with a groan. “I’m gettin’ in the shower.”

“Caem or Wennath,” Noctis says to his back. “Lemme know when you get out.”

There actually is enough hot water for Prompto to get a full scrub in, not that he needs a whole lot. Noctis had been the one in the thick of it, after all. He uses the extra time to put some actual thought in on the choice of fishing spots. By the time he steps out of the washroom, Noctis has removed the towel on his head and arranged his hair more or less in the style in which he wants it to dry without actually brushing it all out. He’s also piled all his weapons on the table with the guns instead of the floor before sprawling out on the bed again.

“Caem or Wennath?” he asks again, lifting his head to watch Prompto approach.

“Wennath,” Prompto answers nonchalantly. He crawls onto the bed next to Noctis and arranges himself so that he can use Noctis’ body as a buffer against the chill of the air conditioner, one arm and leg pressed against Noctis’. “It’s closer to town. Let’s do Caem after the festival.”

“Like a vacation. Nice.” Noctis switches to his calendar app and highlights the next five days in blue before typing  _fishing!!!!_ through all of them. Then there are two unhighlighted days left before an entire week that’s blocked out in red and labelled  _festival_. One is labelled  _auto shop_ , while the day immediately before the start of the Festival of the Hunt is blank. Finally, he blocks the following three days after the festival in yellow and types  _fish maybe_.

Prompto really hopes the festival week goes well enough for it. They hadn’t been able to make it last year--the best shot he was able to get of the lighthouse at Cape Caem was all the way from the bridge spanning the mouth of the river Wennath, and the only thing that had made that shot special was the lance of light through the gathering darkness in the distance.

They play King’s Knight as the afternoon drifts into the evening, and this time Prompto has a way better time sabotaging Noctis. Flat out kissing him every time their scores stagger is a tried and true method, even though it has them both losing the stage. It only takes two tries to get Noctis to abandon the game altogether, too. He tosses his phone toward the end of the bed, and Prompto can’t complain when he rolls until he’s pinned Prompto with most of his body.

“Lucky for you that I’m more in the mood for this than the game,” he murmurs before he sets about capturing the rest of Prompto’s attention with his lips and tongue alone. When he pulls away, it’s reluctant and accompanied with a sigh. “See, this is why I like hunting with just you. We had to spend the whole time looking busy.”

“We  _were_ busy,” Prompto says, snickering against Noctis’ jaw, even though he gets it. Nothing like having to work with others to stop people from taking kissing breaks. “Busy not getting killed.”

“Yeah, but between that.” Noctis pauses to kiss Prompto, then again. “I felt like if we stopped for like two seconds then one of them was gonna start looming.”

“Didn’t think you were the type to be intimidated by them.”

Noctis scoffs. “I’m not. I thought you were gonna break through a window last night just to get away from Gladio, though.”

Prompto ducks his head against Noctis’ collar. “Okay, sure, but he’s chill, remember? Water under the bridge.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Six, Noct, you’re not still ready to square up against him, are you?”

The night before, Noctis had looked like all he’d needed was two words and he’d have done it, even though Prompto’s pretty sure Gladio could take him. Not to kick dirt at his boyfriend, but he just really hadn’t liked the match up there. Two-thirds of his entire list of reasons for becoming a hunter in the first place had been to keep Noctis from getting turned into a pulp, which is why he’s doubly glad to know that Gladio is actually at least two notches less intimidating than he looks. Sort of. When he’s not swinging around a sword bigger than Prompto, anyway.

“No,” Noctis says calmly. “You said he’s cool, and he had good snacks, so he’s probably cool. But if between now and, like, the end of dinner, he’s _not_ , then…”

Prompto pats his cheek, grinning. “Then you can try your best, young warrior. If it all goes to chocobo shit, though--which it won’t because we’re  _super_ chill--I totally know how to pistol whip a dude. Now, plant another one on me; I have a quota to catch up on.”

“Coming right up.” Noctis leans down again, all too happy to oblige.

They only get three kisses in before they hear a series of sharp knocks at their door. Prompto whines into a fourth one, and then Noctis presses his face into the pillow next to Prompto’s head.

“I hope it’s dinner time,” he says as Noctis rolls away. He runs his fingers through his hair to get it more or less neat. Meanwhile, Noctis’ mop is a lost cause without a brush.   

Noctis peeks out the window. “Looks like it. It’s, uh, Specs--Ignis.” He pushes away from the window and beelines for the washroom. “Get the door while I brush my hair so he doesn’t see me looking like a daggerquill tried to nest on my head.”

“On it!” Prompto hops to his feet and brushes some of the wrinkles in his clothes away in the three steps it takes him to get to the door. He swings it open with an easy smile, and then Ignis really is standing in front of him. His eyes flick away from Prompto’s and back in what might be the quickest once-over Prompto’s ever seen, and it doesn’t seem like he’s spotted anything unpleasant even though Prompto knows he and Noctis maintain a system of organization that can barely be called such.

But if the guy’s a hunter, too, then he probably understands anyway. No biggie.

“Hey, Ignis!” Prompto adds in a finger gun to make up for the loud clanging sound that comes suddenly from the washroom, which only barely muffles Noctis’ _oh, fuck_.

“Good evening, Prompto,” Ignis replies, sounding for all the world like he didn’t just overhear a symphony of clattering. The light illuminating the walkway outside makes him look a little sallow, but he sounds as warm as ever. He also smells faintly like lemon. “Apologies if I’ve disturbed you.”

“Hey, no problem! We were just sitting around. How’s cooking going?”

“It went splendidly.” Ignis nods over his shoulder. “Gladio is setting a table on the patio as we speak if you’d still like to join us.”

 _Patio_ is a very generous term for the small square of fine gravel that’s been sectioned off from the rest of the motel parking lot behind Ignis. There are four tables with a number of mismatched chairs scattered between them there, and Gladio is indeed stealing one such chair from an unoccupied table to make four seats at another that has mugs spread across it. He then wanders back into his room.

“Oh, you know it,” Prompto says with a thumbs up. He looks back into the room just in time to see Noctis poke his head out of the washroom. His hair is brushed, but still down. “Still up for dinner, Noct?”

Noctis disappears briefly, only to reappear fully a few seconds later, bangs rearranged to his usual liking and the rest of his hair pulled around to rest over one shoulder. “Yeah, of course.”

Ignis makes an inviting gesture and steps away from the doorway. Prompto and Noctis follow him out once they have their shoes on, and very soon after they reach the table the smell of fish and lemon wafts toward them.

“Hope you guys like a lot of potatoes and a lot of fish,” Gladio says, returning to the table with his hands full of plates. “Iggy saw the chance to feed someone other than me and went a little overboard.”

“I only made what I felt was deserved after a long day,” Ignis says with only a hint of defensiveness. The atmosphere is otherwise loose, warmer than the night before. There’s a certain bond that comes about after hunting together, even though Prompto knows nothing about their current companions other than one likes to cook, one likes to exercise, and that, if the plate on their car is to be believed, they might have lived in the Crown City.

Prompto inhales deeply. The scents around the table remind him almost immediately of certain meals he’d had in the past, of warm nights he’d spent in the large kitchen of Noctis’ apartment--his family’s apartment, rather. His  _home_ , before it went empty and chilly and they moved away. Noctis’ dad was a hunter and not a chef, but he still knew a hundred and one ways to prepare fish, which he did so often to sate his son’s love for it, and so Prompto knows what Ignis has prepared even before a heavy plate is set down before him.

“Battered barramundi,” Ignis says as the rest of them settle down, all but confirming Prompto’s prediction. The plates are laden with golden brown fillets and diced potatoes, which rest on slices of bright green lettuce. Prompto knows he’s going to wind up with extra lettuce, courtesy of Noctis, but he doesn’t mention that. “With a side of sweet Leiden potatoes.”

Noctis brings his hands together like he’s about to make a prayer to some seventh Astral known for cooking. “Wow, you really did put a lot of work into this. I feel like I should have sent Prompto to help you.”

“It was no trouble,” Ignis says, looking pretty pleased with himself for receiving a compliment before anyone’s even taken a bite. He clearly intends to rectify that situation though, since the next thing he does is motion toward their plates and say, “Please, eat.”

Well, Prompto doesn’t want to be the one to keep the guy waiting. There’s a plastic fork on the side of his plate and he uses it to separate a bite-sized piece of one of the fillets, and it flakes so nicely that it makes Prompto want to stop and take a picture of it. But he has some manners, so he doesn’t.

Claiming to have manners doesn’t stop him from moaning loudly when he actually tastes the food, though. Gladio laughs at him, but he doesn’t care. He’s had this multiple times before, but it’s been years since it was this good, since the fish flaked instead of crumbled, the lemon a pleasant burst and not a spike against his tongue. Noctis tries--he really, really does--but there’s always something that comes short.

Next to him, Noctis is still, his fingers loose around the fork in his mouth. He looks about a million miles away.

Prompto turns to Ignis, prepared to pick up the slack while Noctis makes his way back. It isn’t even hard. “Holy sh--I mean-- _wow_ , Ignis, this is really good!”

“Thank you,” Ignis says. “It was a simple recipe, but I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

Ah, another player of the humbling game. “No, really. Why are you even  _here?_  Why are you a hunter and not a chef?”

“Cooking is merely a hobby of mine,” Ignis says smoothly. “As much as I enjoy it, my callings lie elsewhere.”

“Uh, where?” The puzzle keeps getting bigger, except it’s a jigsaw puzzle and Prompto didn’t get to see the picture on the box before he’d started. “ _Merely a hobby_ , he says, Noct.”

“People cook as a hobby,” Noctis says, finally returning to the present time two bites later. “What did you use, anyway? I’ve tried making these from a recipe card I have but it keeps coming out off.”

“I could only use what was available here,” Ignis replies. He seems pleased to be able to discuss it. “Lemon juice, egg, flour.”

“Baking powder?”

“No more than a teaspoon.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Prompto says, nudging Noctis’ arm. “You use like, a lot of baking powder.”

“Because that’s what’s on the card,” Noctis insists. “Dad put more than that, so I use more.”

“Perhaps there’s something else missing, then,” Ignis suggests. Beside him, Gladio’s eyes are flicking back and forth between him and Noctis like he’s calculating something. “Maybe the wrong measurement was written down, or there’s a missing ingredient.”

Noctis shrugs and takes another bite. “Maybe. Guess I’ll have to try it out.”

All of about six seconds pass in silence as they eat before Gladio clears his throat. “Hey, got a question for you two.”

“Shoot,” Prompto says before Noctis can speak again with a full mouth.

“You know we’re new to the gig,” Gladio starts, gesturing between Ignis and himself. “And we keep hearing about some festival. What’s all that about?”

“Festival of the Hunt, you mean?” Prompto asks. Noctis, still making a heavy dent in the barramundi fillets in front of him, perks up, too. “You really haven’t heard of it before?”

“Not a murmur,” Ignis says. “We know it has something to do with culling daemons, but, you see, we’re from the Crown City--”

Noctis swats Prompto’s arm with the back of his hand. “Told you,” he says with his mouth still half full. He swallows quickly. “Sorry, no offence. I just knew ‘cause of the car, but Prompto was still saying you might be from Tenebrae.”

Ignis freezes. It’s only for a split second, and Prompto nearly misses it because it’s kind of hard to tell when someone with good posture stiffens up, but he still catches the minuscule upward jerk of his chin. It’s gone just as fast, though. “I see. Well, whoever bet Insomnia wins the pool, I suppose.”

“No money, but I still win.” Noctis shoots Prompto a smug look. Prompto makes a face at him. Ignis’ accent made his a good guess and he stands by that. “Anyway, the Festival of the Hunt is pretty straight forward. What do you want to know?”

“If it’s an actual festival, first off,” Gladio says.

Prompto makes a vague gesture while Noctis shrugs. There’s a fair bit of celebrating and all, but it’s not the kind of event that they want big civvie crowds at. If anything, most people book the week off and high-tail it to Lestallum, or take a vacation with the chocobos.

“Sort of?” Prompto says. “What we do is, a bunch of us get together in Old Lestallum, we fortify the area bit, and then we hit the lights and make stupid noises at the daemons until they come fight us.”

“And then we do it again until the end of the week,” Noctis finishes.

Gladio blinks heavily a few times. “So, it’s a military operation.”

“Sure. _If_ we were military,” Noctis says flatly. “Which we’re not.”

If Gladio is put off by Noctis’ tone, he doesn’t show it. He just rolls into his next question, curious as ever. “Where does the festival part come in, then?”

“Because we do it in teams that compete to see who can take out the most daemons,” Prompto explains. Gladio’s expression darkens a little, and he can’t tell if it’s in confusion or disapproval. He continues hastily--the last thing he wants is someone from behind a wall coming in to tell them they’re doing a bad job. “So, like, here’s how it is--you know how there’s that big fortress near Old Lestallum?”

“Fort Vaullerey,” Ignis provides.

“Yep, that’s the one. It’s abandoned right now, but there’s always been skirmishes in it. The festival started up when the Imperials were in control of it, and they were all like, ‘oh, don’t worry about the daemons, we’ll protect you civilians, blah blah--’”

“Except they did jack  _shit_ ,” Noctis interjects bitterly. “The festival started there so that the hunters could knock the daemon numbers down and then toss whatever they picked up from the kills right onto the Imperials’ doorstep.”

Prompto nods quickly. “It’s _all_ about sticking it to the Imperials.”

That gets a little grin out of Gladio. “So, what, whoever gets the most loot wins?”

“Pretty much.”

“And you two are…”

Prompto slings an arm around Noctis’ shoulder, and Noctis leans into the embrace with a finger gun. “Totally competing, hell yeah.”

Ignis and Gladio exchange a quiet look. Crown City folk must do that a lot, or something.

“What about you guys?” Prompto asks, forging ahead. Now that he’s hunted with them, he doesn’t mind the idea of them competing so much. Spirit of friendly competition and all. “You said you were new, but you were still badass earlier. Are you gonna get in on it?”

“We’ve thought about it,” Ignis says with all the attitude of someone who only needs a breeze or two to push them off the fence. “It begins soon, doesn’t it?”

“It literally starts next week. This is supposed to be our last hunt so that we can be in tip-top shape when it starts.”

“It’s pretty dangerous,” Noctis warns. “Since, y’know, the lights are going out and all. Enough of them are, anyway. Potential damages are the top reason Old Lestallum never gets any bigger than it is.”

Ignis frowns softly. “Why hold the operation in the town at all, then?”

“Because daemons go where people are,” Noctis says gravely. “But the people have lights. So, when those lights go out…”

“The flocks come in,” Ignis finishes. “Ah, I see now. The Festival of the Hunt is one great daemon trap.”

Noctis clicks his tongue. “You got it. Maybe you should think about it. More daemons show up if more hunters do, but if you can fight daemons like you do wild animals, then you’d probably be a lot of help.”

Ignis and Gladio engage in another silent conversation, but this time Prompto can follow it very easily. It’s kind of like looking in a mirror while he’s trying to convince Noctis to do something, except it’s Gladio trying very hard to tell Ignis that whatever he’s thinking is a bad idea. Prompto doesn’t know either of them well enough to tell who’s winning, though.

“But, hey, it’s not like there’s a deadline on when you can put your names in,” he says, cutting their exchange short. “Just as long as they’re in before the first night. You have all week to think about it.”

“It’s not like every hunter in Lucis is gonna be there, either,” Noctis says offhandedly. “Old Lestallum’s gonna be crawling with daemons, sure, but hunters are still needed everywhere else in the meantime. But like, if you wanna think about it, those are the basics.”

Ignis hums thoughtfully and Prompto gets the sneaking suspicion that Gladio has either lost the battle or decided to finish it when they aren’t around company. He almost wants to offer up some gesture of solidarity, a fistbump or something, but the moment passes too fast. Conversation drifts to idle things like other fantastic meals Ignis has prepared and how long they all think they’re going to be able to stay awake after a tiring hunt and a good meal.

Not very long is Prompto’s guess. Noctis is already starting to really flag, the drain of both hunting and being around other people catching up to him. Prompto shovels his food in a little faster, partly because it’d be a shame if it got cold and partly so that they can all go their separate ways sooner.

He still needs to talk to Noctis alone, after all. He really, really doesn’t want to wait much longer.

 

\--

 

Noctis’ headache has gone from a persistent heaviness to feeling like Titan himself is pounding on his skull by the time he and Prompto finally get to be alone. The meal was fantastic and he’s glad Ignis was willing to make it for all of them, but it had taken almost everything Noctis had to keep a straight face and an even tone. They say their thanks and goodnights, and then Noctis shuts the door behind them and the silence that greets him is bliss.

Prompto makes for the washroom first and Noctis uses the moment of alone time to recompose himself. All he needs to do is get them into bed and to sleep and then he’ll wake up in the morning feeling good as new. Yeah. He can do that.

He’s gotten his shoes off and downed more painkillers by the time Prompto reappears. His hands and face are damp and he’s turning his wristband around and around, which is Noctis’ first clue that his plan is already being derailed.

“Ready for bed?” he asks. He’s gotta be hopeful, at least. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to sleep for an entire day.”

“Yeah, same,” Prompto says. “Can I ask you something first, though?”

Noctis sits down on the edge of the nearest bed and tells himself that it was a worthy attempt. “What about?”

Prompto sits on the end of the bed and then falls back to look up at Noctis. “When we finished up the hunt, earlier, after you used magic...”

Noctis should have known it would come up again. He sighs and can’t help looking away. “Yeah, I know. I didn’t have time to warn you or anything, but--”

“You were pinned down,” Prompto reminds him. “Ignis was the one in the blast zone and he’s fine, remember?”

He does remember--he remembers nearly panicking because he couldn’t tell how close Ignis had already gotten. Ignis moved quick, but the voretooth, or whatever the hell that thing was supposed to be, was quicker. Noctis didn’t have any time to waste if he wanted to keep his neck. Ignis, thankfully, had stopped just short of the fire that had burst forth from Noctis’ palm.

“Yeah, I know that, but I also know you don’t like that stuff--”

“That!” Prompto shoots upright and turns back around so that his left leg is bent underneath him and his right hangs loose off the side of the bed. His eyes are wide at first, but then they crinkle along with his brows in confusion. “You said that before,” he says quietly. “You… Why do you think I don’t like your magic?”

It hurts his head to do something as simple as laugh, but damn if Noctis doesn’t do it anyway, even though it comes out weird and stilted as he faces Prompto properly. “Is that a trick question, Prom? Where would you like me to  _start?_ ”

Because of the way Prompto flinches when he uses a powerful spell? Or the way his whole face tightens up when Noctis blinks around more than a few times? Or, wait--how about the way his knee is probably fucked up for life because of Noctis’ magic?

Noctis goes for that one first, because there’s no way that Prompto can try to cover it up.

“You know you have that knee brace for a _reason_ , remember?”

Prompto blinks heavily and draws back like he’d been pushed. Noctis deserves that, honestly. He’s finally getting the clue.

Except then Prompto asks, “Noct, do you think I’m afraid of you?”

The headache is too painful for Noctis to really take in the dejection in Prompto’s voice. He gestures sharply at Prompto’s right leg. He’d reach for it, but after all the walking they did his knee’s gotta be killing him. “You have to be. I know you won’t say it, but I’ve seen how you look whenever I do--do  _anything_. When I blink, when I do something that’ll actually cause some damage--”

Prompto shakes his head, faster and faster until he lurches forward. He reaches out but doesn’t quite touch. Instead, he splays his fingers out. “Noct, that isn’t--no! Six, Noct, I don’t hate it at all! You’re badass when you blink and all the stuff you can do is just  _awesome_. I love that stuff!”

“Is that what flinching means now?” Noctis asks sourly. “Because that’s what you do, Prom.”

It’s what he does now, too, recoiling into himself. Then, he shakes his head and grabs Noctis’ hand. “Okay, sure, I do that, but I’m not  _afraid_ of you. I’m not afraid of the--the magic or anything. It’s just…”

“It’s just that you don’t like it,” Noctis says slowly. He tries to say it as carefully as he can. Prompto looks like he might breakdown, and Noctis doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Prompto to think he’s angry about it. He’s not. Not really. He knows what he can do is strange and dangerous, and he’s trying his best to get it under control, but that doesn’t mean everyone else has to be comfortable with it.

Ignis and Gladio had been quietly accepting, and Noctis is somewhat grateful for that, especially since he hadn’t been in the mood to answer intrusive questions. A lot of hunters are rightfully wary, but they won’t outright hate something that helps them out in the field. But Prompto isn’t some temporary teammate that Noctis is going to part ways with after everything’s said and done.

They’re partners, a package deal.

Prompto still shouldn’t have to deal with the parts that’ll just cause him more pain.

“I get it, Prompto,” Noctis says wearily. “You don’t have to pretend. I’m not gonna hate you for it or anything. Can we just… go to sleep now?”

“Nuh uh,” Prompto says purposefully, and for a split second Noctis wants to be able to get legitimately angry at him. To take the spike out of his skull and do something with them. But he can’t, and not just because Prompto is already speaking again. “Because you’re gonna think _I_ hate  _you_ , or something equally stupid. If this is about my knee, then--” he throws his hands up. “--Astrals above, Noct! It was the _Festival of the Hunt._  Everybody gets hurt, and it was my own fault that I got hurt, too. How could I blame you for that?”

Noctis sputters and almost chokes on his own spit. How can Prompto blame himself? How can he just push aside what Noctis did? “Can you summon lightning out of your hands, Prompto? Were you the one that wasn’t paying attention--”

“I was the one who  _missed!_ ” Prompto cuts in frantically. “I got pinned because I let it happen, and you--you…” Prompto buries his face in his hands for a few seconds. His fingers are shaking almost as badly as Noctis’ as he peeks out from between them with one watery eye. “Do you even remember the rest of that week, Noct?” he asks hesitantly. “Do you know what you looked like, after?”

Noctis opens his mouth to respond, to counter, but no words make it to his tongue. He has plenty of memories he could recount, plenty of ways to explain how exactly their last festival took such a terrible turn. They’d promised to watch each others’ backs, but when it came down to it Noctis fell short. He wasn’t supposed to let the daemons slip by him, especially not ones so dangerous as the Ronin, but he’d turn his eye anyway and he’d very nearly been too late to correct his mistake. After that…

After that, he woke up somewhere else feeling like absolute shit. Like he’d gotten pulled apart and then run over. He tries to recall the second half of that week almost a full year ago now, to recall exactly what exactly made him feel like that, but there’s nothing to describe.

Prompto knows it, too. He lowers his hands to his lap and stares at them. “You were unconscious the whole time, Noct. You didn’t wake up for days. I was so afraid that you… I thought…” He clenches his hands. “When you cast that spell, it took so much out of you that I thought you weren’t gonna get it back. You were bleeding so much and _burning_ and it was all because of _me_.”

The pieces are there but they aren’t fitting together because they still aren’t  _right_. The realization that Prompto doesn’t know--has  _never_ known--hits like a punch to Noctis’ gut. Prompto really thinks it was all his fault.

“I’ve never been afraid of you, Noct,” Prompto continues gently. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and finally meets Noctis’ gaze again with a shaky smile. “I was worried. They way you were then, it was so bad. I thought it was gonna kill you and I never wanted to see you like that again.”

For the briefest moment, Noctis feels no pain. The headache is reduced to nothing more than a faint pressure behind his eyes, one that gets heavier and heavier while he chokes on air. A weight slips from between his ribs, jarred loose by Prompto’s sincerity, but it’s quickly replaced with another that twists almost as badly.

Prompto has never been afraid of Noctis’ magic, of _Noctis_. The nights he’d spent training alone, wondering if that knife would be in his chest forever, come back to him under a different light. Prompto thought Noctis blamed  _him_. And yet he still worries.

Noctis struggles to find the words he needs, to figure out how to explain how backwards all that is, how Prompto can’t possibly shoulder all of that, but before he can get so much as a syllable out, the heavy silence of their room is broken by a knock at the door.

Noctis startles as his headache--his damn migraine, at this point--comes back to him in full force, and Prompto hurriedly wipes his eyes again as he looks toward the door. He makes to get up, but Noctis presses him back down as gently as he can manage.

“This conversation is so not over,” he says sternly before he stands up himself.

He doesn’t even glance out the window to see who could possibly be outside because he’s already got a pretty good idea and he  _really_ isn’t in the mood to entertain. He opens the door a bit too forcefully, and there, just as he suspected, stands Ignis.

“Something you need?” Noctis tries for casual but, frankly, doesn’t care if he’s entirely successful. Ignis glances over his shoulder and probably spots Prompto trying and failing to look composed on the bed, so Noctis leans on the doorframe and hopes that’s enough to block the view.

“I apologize for disturbing you again,” Ignis says politely, “but there’s something I need to discuss with you, Noctis.”

Noctis resists the urge to look over his shoulder to see Prompto’s reaction. “Can it wait until morning?”

Ignis’ expression remains unchanged, but his tone becomes genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry, but if it could then I would have waited until then. However, the matter is quite important and so I must be persistent.”

There’s only one thing Noctis can think of that would be so urgent. Maybe these guys weren’t as cool about the firestorm as Noctis had believed. It's understandable if not disappointing. 

“What’s it about, then?” he asks warily.

“Something that must be discussed in private,” Ignis replies immediately. _Alone, without Prompto_ , goes unsaid.

Noctis turns halfway toward Prompto anyway. “Put your shoes on, I guess, Prom.”

“I’m sorry,” Ignis says. A note of annoyance sneaks into his voice now that he has to actually bring up something unsaid. It doesn’t stop Prompto from getting up and sliding his shoes on again, which is more satisfying to Noctis than it probably should be. “But I must ask that we speak alone.”

“He’s gonna know anyway,” Noctis says dismissively as he shoves his feet into his own shoes. He checks Prompto’s expression again surreptitiously--better, now; calmer--before looking Ignis in the eye and continuing. “I don’t like getting in the habit of keeping secrets from my boyfriend.”

Ignis blinks and the corners of his diplomatic mask twitch. He’s good at keeping a straight face, Noctis will give him that, but that fact that has to do so at all kind of surprises Noctis in turn. Were he and Prompto that inconspicuous?

Ignis’ gaze flickers back and forth a couple of time between him and Prompto. Then, after a few long, silent seconds of consideration, he pushes his glasses up and sighs quietly. “If you insist. Please, follow me, then.”

Prompto winds one of his arms around Noctis’, encouragement and reassurance together, and then they follow Ignis into the night once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I love all the comments that have been left so far; you guys are fantastic and the responses get me through the moments when I don't have the chance to write. This chapter was very nearly delayed, too, but here we are. Take that, life. 
> 
> The ending scene was one of the Actually Planned plot points, and it combined with some of the assorted building makes this one of my favourite parts. I thought about including different scenes but then decided to push them to the next chapter and make it a whole barrel of fun :)
> 
> Tags added with this chapter: angst; hurt/comfort


	7. the echo of royalty

The only difference between the room that Noctis got and the room that Ignis and Gladio got is that there isn’t a haphazard pile of weapons on the table and both of the beds seem to be in use. Same wallpaper, same bedspreads, same size. Turquoise; two doubles; not a whole lot of extra space for four people.

Gladio is there, too. Not that he was also in Noctis’ room, but he’s sitting at the table in this one with his eyes on the whole room. He sends Ignis a sharp look as soon as Prompto steps inside.

“He’s staying,” Noctis says immediately.

“Prompto will be joining us,” Ignis says at the same moment in a somewhat more placating tone. “Better than to hear second hand, as he certainly would otherwise.”

Prompto waves awkwardly. Gladio relaxes marginally, looking more understanding than anything. Water under the bridge, Prompto had said. Noctis still doesn’t let up on his arm until Ignis gestures toward the sofa and tells them to sit down, though. Noctis is reluctant, but he does as he’s asked. If he plays his cards right, he can be back up and out in just a few minutes.

People usually want stories. They want the science behind his ability to be in one place and then another in the blink of an eye. Usually, they’re disappointed. He’s got no science and the majority of the stories he has aren’t that interesting.

Gladio leaves his seat to pull the curtains shut, which, much like the way he casually returns to his creaky chair, isn’t ominous at all. Then, he says to Prompto, “As long as nothing you hear leaves this room, we’re fine.”

“Gotcha,” Prompto says as he settles in next to Noctis. “Noct’s probably gonna blab to me either way, anyway. You wanna know about his magic, don’t you?”

Cutting right to the chase. What a blessing.

Ignis sits down in the stiff looking chair on the other side of the scuffed coffee table with a black folder in his lap, which is also not at all sinister. “In a way, yes. What we witnessed was certainly extraordinary.”

That’s a way to describe it to someone new on the block.

“I guess,” Noctis says. “Not something you see every day in the Crown City, I take it.”

The hum Ignis makes is vague at best. “To most, yes. In my work, not so much.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

Noctis can’t help but be curious. Like most hunters, he’s never met anyone else who can use any kind of magic. All he’s got is hearsay telling him that he can’t be the only one on Eos. Ignis, on the other hand, apparently already knows that there are others like him. That doesn’t explain the shiftiness, though. He tilts his head, trying to suss out some lingering damage from the hunt earlier anywhere on Ignis’ person. There’s not a single burn or a speck of ash on him.

“You’re not injured, right?”

“Not at all,” Ignis says, hands outstretched. “Neither your warping nor your fire caused me any harm.”

“Warping--oh. You mean the blinking.”

Noctis and Ignis spend the next two seconds blinking at each other, which Noctis imagines is comical based on the tension he feels rippling through Prompto in his effort to stay quiet.

“Yes,” Ignis says. “The blinking. Where did you learn to do such things?”

Noctis shrugs. When he was a kid, he lit a candle for his mom when the power was out during a storm. Another time, he was playing tag with his dad and flung himself down a hill in a blink to avoid getting caught. There had never been a _place_ or a _teacher_. It just… happened and he figured it out as he went along.

“There aren’t really any classes for that kind of thing,” he offers. “I just picked it up.”

“So, you were born with the ability.”

“Maybe? Why?

Ignis press on curiously. “Where do you think it comes from?”

Noctis shakes his head once and regrets it when all it does is make it feel like his brain is punching itself. “How should I know? I’m not gonna question everything that happens in the world. Grass grows green, daemons pop up at night, and I can toss fire around. Why does this matter to you?”

Astrals willing, it’ll be something Noctis can provide a satisfying enough answer to.

Ignis runs his fingers along the opening of his folder like he means to open it but then reconsiders. “A curious thing about magic,” he says instead. “It exists, but not everyone can use it. Only a select few, in fact.”

“Okay. So I’m a little weirder than I thought.” Noctis squints. For a few seconds, there are smudges running along his peripheries, mixing up the colours of the room and the lines of Prompto’s body. He blinks a few times, though, and they’re gone. He can focus again on Ignis and the implication of his words. “Did you come all the way out here for me? For people who can use magic?”

“Not people,” Ignis states. He somehow manages to sound sheepish. “You, specifically.”

“That’s not suspicious at all,” Prompto says, voicing Noctis’ exact thought. “What do you need Noct for?” He stiffens in the brief silence that answers him. “It’s not… it’s not because of the war, is it?”

The war. The kingdom and the empire. Damn. Noctis hadn’t considered that at all. Do they want him to fight?

Do they not have any confidence that the peace talks will actually happen?

Ignis’ lack of an immediate answer is all Noctis needs to know that he won’t like where the conversation is apparently going.

Except Gladio is the one who speaks up next. “No,” he says simply, waving that thread away with his hand. His tone is almost completely different from his easy-going ways earlier, all serious and business-like. “We’re not concerned with any of the negotiations right now. We didn’t come to enlist you, either.”

“You want some kind of interview, then?” Noctis asks, his jaw tight. “Because, honestly, it’s been a long day. I’m really not in the mood for twenty questions.”

“Just a few, then,” Ignis says quickly. “If you give me just a few moments you will understand why I cannot stress enough how important this is.”

Noctis rubs one hand over his face while Prompto takes the other in his cool fingers. Those things together only offer a faint relief from the persistent ache in his temples. He’d stand up then and there if it weren’t for the fact that Gladio is the perfect size for blocking doorways. “Shoot, then. What do you want to know?”

Ignis flips the cover of the folder open and glances through a small stack of photos before sliding one across the table. “Do you recognize this man?”

Noctis and Prompto both lean forward to look at the portrait before them. An old man stares back at them with dignified green eyes. He’s got a black suit with some expensive looking gold detailing, but that’s as much of an opinion Noctis can form about him.

“No,” he says flatly.

Ignis slides another picture over. The subject is a younger man with another fancy black suit and even blacker hair. His eyes are the same piercing green. Noctis glances between the photos and comes to the conclusion that they’re related before repeating himself.

“You don’t recognize the king of Lucis?” Gladio asks from the other side of the room, his voice painted with near disbelief.

Noctis hears a faint  _oh_ from an embarrassed Prompto. Noctis knows the king’s name, but his appearance? Not off the top of his head, apparently. He looks up at Gladio and tries not to be completely snarky. “Sorry? His face isn’t exactly plastered on the walls.”

“No reason to apologize,” Ignis says courteously before presenting a third picture. “This one, though…”

The third man in the photo is, again, younger. He’s looking slightly less formal and his hair isn’t so impeccably groomed, but it’s still the same black and green. It’s the same guy--the king. Noctis scowls at the picture like the man inside could be held accountable for how asinine the question of whether or not he’s recognizable to Noctis without a beard is.

His headache pounds all the while. He really should have been the one to insist that this wait until morning. Then he could have gone to sleep and woken up early enough to grab Prompto and go home.

Prompto, oblivious to Noctis’ darkening mood, makes a wordless sound of confusion and leans forward for a better look, very nearly pushing Noctis out of the way.   

“What?” Noctis asks after Prompto chooses to make another weird noise instead of using words.

“Dude,” Prompto says as he straightens up and looks at Noctis. His eyebrows have climbed a disconcerting distance to his hairline. “He looks like you.”

Noctis squints down at the picture again and sees the same short black hair and green eyes as he did before. “Are you sure about that?”

“Uh, _yeah_ , Noct. I’m kind of super familiar with your face.”

“His eyes are green, Prom.”

“Yeah, but look at his jawline. This is so creepy.” Prompto latches onto Noctis’ arm again and turns to Ignis. “What does this have to do with anything, though?”

Ignis’s eyes are soft and cautious. He takes so long choosing his words that Gladio takes up the torch again.

“How old are you, Noctis?” he asks.

“None of your business,” Noctis answers through grit teeth.

Gladio is entirely unfazed. “You were adopted, right?”

“ _Definitely_ none of your business,” Noctis snaps. It figures that the first people he meets out of the Crown City act like they have the right to any of that stuff, nevermind  _how_ they got it. Is there some kind of magic people database that he needs to get himself out of?

“Noctis,” Ignis says firmly. “Please listen carefully--”

“I’m just about done--”

Ignis launches into a hasty explanation regardless of Noctis’ protest. “The only people in the world who can use magic as you can are the royal family of Lucis, who were blessed by the Crystal, and those in the Kingsglaive, a body of soldiers who received that blessing in turn. You are not a Glaive. You are a hunter who was adopted as a child and could use magic since then. Do you understand what I am saying?”

At the moment, Noctis can only understand two things--that there are words being said to him, and that Prompto has a death grip on his arm. There are implications presented by the former, but they make no sense.

“The king had a son twenty years ago,” Gladio chimes in evenly. “But sixteen years ago, Prince Noctis went missing.”

Noctis squeezes his eyes shut. Sixteen years ago, he was in Old Lestallum. He was sitting on a chair, hugging a blanket with a cactuar pattern on it, and his dad was burning lunch. He wasn’t-- _wherever_ they seem to think he was. He wasn’t--

\--in a forest, surrounded by countless trees--

“His Majesty never stopped searching for his son,” Ignis continues. His voice is muffled and yet it echoes in the crowded motel room. “That’s what we were sent here to do. Noctis--”

“No.” Noctis has to fight his teeth to drag a single sound out. He yanks his arm free of Prompt’s hands so that he can press both hands against his face, then his temples. Pill after pill and the pain has only gotten _worse_. Everything is too loud, too heavy. His skull wants to crack open and he wonders, desperately, if slamming it against the table would do the job.

They think he was born in Insomnia?

They think he’s some prince?

He already  _has_ a family.

“Noct?”

Prompto is there, somewhere, trying to get Noctis’ attention. His voice sounds small, uncertain. Noctis wants to follow it, wants to find his family, but he makes for the table instead, sliding off the sofa to his knees. It doesn’t quite get him there. He could shout with the frustration. Maybe he does as he climbs--

\--over and under roots thicker than his own body, following--

There are noises he can’t comprehend, and then Prompto is there again, his voice knocking at Noctis’ mind. Noctis can feel Prompto’s hands on him, gripping his shoulders and then his cheeks. Noctis tries to lean into the touches. Prompto’s hands have always run cool, have always been a blessing even though it never comes any closer--

“Gladio, my bag.” Ignis again. He’s worked up about something. Noctis doesn’t care. Prompto is troubled by something. He takes priority.

“Don’t touch him,” Prompto says sharply. The sound cuts through the fog and Noctis has just enough presence of mind to be smug, to wish he could open his eyes without being stabbed to witness Prompto baring his teeth. “Noct,” he continues, softer. “Babe, you’re really scaring me here.”

Scaring him.

_Prompto is scared of him._

_“Noctis.”_  

He hears his name somewhere in front of him, behind him, echoing in the dark. It’s deep and vaguely familiar. Prompto? He calls out, but all he gets in response is a pain so sharp that he can’t recognize where he’s even feeling it.

The world grows dark, and his body grows heavy, and only then does he come across a giant, empty pedestal made of ancient, cracked marble. There is an old man sitting atop it, a cane held loosely in his hands. He watches Noctis with an expression he cannot describe as he drags his feet through the undergrowth, tripping on roots and stones.

He calls out again. _“Noctis.”_

But Noctis is so tired now that he cannot answer.

 

\--

 

There are several ways in which this evening could have gone better. Beginning with the lighter subject of magic had seemed like a good idea, though. Perhaps they should have started with the issue of lineage and then worked through the predicted shock instead. Or would that have only served to exacerbate the current issue?

Ignis had considered several reactions on the journey to this night. Denial? Understandable. Fainting? Unlikely given Noctis’ apparent disposition, but not entirely out of the running.

He will admit, however, that he had not prepared himself for this. Would putting it off entirely until the morning have prevented this?

Noctis had not seemed pleased to be disturbed again after dinner, but Gladio had convinced Ignis that they could not waste more time. The longer rumours travel in Duscae, after all, the more likely it will be that their enemies will see fit to act. That is one of the last things they need.

Also on the list of things Ignis doesn’t need is Prompto playing guard dog over Noctis’ unconscious body. With the coffee table shoved out of the way before Noctis could smash his head against it, he and Prompto are crammed into the nook formed by it, the sofa, and the chair, which leaves Ignis with only one path to reach Noctis. Prompto, however, is doing everything in his power to stop him from doing so.

Having already misjudged the nature of their relationship once, Ignis is reluctant to test how much further Prompto will go.

Gladio presses one of their only remedies into his hand, and Ignis approaches the pair on the floor with the vial offered before him.

“Prompto, I only wish to help him,” he says carefully. “I swear it. This remedy may help him.”

Prompto watches him with his lips pressed tight in a scrutinizing gaze. He’s distracted briefly when Noctis twitches, but he otherwise doesn’t display any intention of making way. Instead, his eyes flick to the remedy in Ignis’ hand before he reaches for it himself, all but snatching it from Ignis.

Ignis steps back and watches Prompto adjust Noctis’ body in his lap from a respectable distance next to Gladio.

“He didn't look sick to me,” Gladio murmurs, concerned.

“Nor to me,” Ignis agrees. Noctis had only looked tired, not ill. He didn’t cough or sniffle and he wasn’t flushed with fever. Now, he’s pale and occasionally twitching in Prompto’s arms. “Judging by Prompto’s reaction, though, this is unusual.”

Gladio crosses his arms with a disgruntled sigh. “And here I was thinking we were a shade too lucky. What are you thinking?”

Ignis needs more time--more knowledge--to be thinking anything useful. Has this happened before? Is it a side effect of latent poison from a voretooth? Would King Regis be able to offer clues?

“Nothings happening,” Prompto says worriedly. That does away with the poison theory. He whips around to frown at Ignis and Gladio. “Who the hell are you guys, anyway?”

Ignis’ cell phone rings before he can answer, cutting him off from another answer that might have been helpful to provide earlier. He only intends to glance at the caller ID and then turn his ringer off, but then he sees that none other than Clarus Amicitia is calling him. Gladio sees it, too, and his expression is dire.

“I’ll take this one,” he says, plucking Ignis’ phone out of his fingers. He heads for the door, nodding toward Prompto before slipping out. “You handle that.”

The door clicks shut, and Ignis hazards a couple steps toward Prompto. “My name is Ignis Scientia. My companion is Gladiolus Amicitia. We are retainers to the royal family of Lucis.”

Prompto blanches, which speaks strongly of his reaction considering his already pale complexion under the faint tan. “I--you don't really think Noct--”

“Is the missing heir to the throne?” Ignis nods once. He circles around to the chair he’d vacated earlier, draws one of the photos of Noctis out of his report folder, and shows it to Prompto alongside the photo of a young King Regis. “Yes. Considering his abilities and his appearance, I do believe so.”

Prompto looks back and forth between the pictures and then sputters. “Wait--you guys were _following_ us?”

“A Glaive spotted you,” Ignis explains quickly. “About two weeks ago, now. We’d caught wind of a hunter who could use magic and investigated. What I said earlier was the truth, Prompto. Noctis’ form of magic can only come from two sources, and since he is not a member of the Kingsglaive…”

Prompto goes silent. He turns his gaze on Noctis again, almost forlorn.

“Did you not have questions about the things he could do?” Ignis asks. Friends, then partners. What about before that? Did Prompto never suspect?

Prompto shakes his head. “Noct has always been my friend. What we could do or… where we came from, those things didn’t matter. We stuck together anyway. I just thought all the stuff he could do was really cool.”

“And this,” Ignis gestures to Noctis, whose twitches seem to have abated. “This has never happened before?”

Prompto opens his mouth and a single sound slips out, but then he shakes his head mutely. Ignis knows the lie for what it is but doesn’t press. Instead, he turns toward the door as Gladio returns with a deep furrow in his brow.

Ignis moves to the other side of the room and whispers, “What is it?”

“They wanted a status update, everything we could think of about the current situation.” Gladio jerks his chin toward Noctis and Prompto. “His Majesty went down like a sack of bricks. Dad said he’s fine now, up and walking, but if it’s got nothing to do with this then I’ll eat my sword.”

Ignis feels a chill in his spine. The king, unconscious? Had it happened at the same time? Had he been in excruciating pain as well? If the two incidents are connected, why is Noctis not awake as well?

“What did you tell them?”

“That we found Noctis and tried to explain things before he went down. They’re not certain if it’s connected, but we need to get Noctis there as soon as possible. How soon do you think we can manage that?”

Ignis removes his glasses and wipes them off for the sheer desire to have something to do with his hands. “I’m not sure. Noctis wasn’t exactly pleased with what we had to say, but now I can’t say if he was truly unhappy or simply in too much pain to genuinely consider the possibilities.”

“Kind of looks like the latter to me,” Gladio says, glancing over Ignis’ shoulder. “Maybe this’ll work for us, though.”

“How so?”

“Come on, Iggy. Noctis  _and_ His Majesty going under at the same time? No way that’s a coincidence. Something happened and Noctis is only gonna get the answers in Insomnia.”

Gladio has a point. Surely Noctis will want those answers. His attitude toward his own abilities is blasé at best, but to be in so much pain for seemingly no reason? Ignis cannot imagine being able to continue his daily life without wondering.

“I suggest we wait until he’s recovered before saying anything,” Ignis says, turning toward Prompto and Noctis, still on the floor. “I doubt Prompto will be inclined to listen at the moment.”

Gladio snickers quietly. “Probably not. Kid damn near bit your hand off.”

Ignis shrugs. “All’s fair in love, I suppose.”

“Yeah? So they are together?” Gladio doesn’t sound surprised, but his expression does take on a thoughtful note.

“Noctis said as much when I spoke to him earlier. Did you know?”

Gladio shrugs. “Wanted to suspect, but people call me babe all the time and we’re not together, so. Kind of wish we didn’t have to factor in a relationship on top of everything else, though.”

Ignis can't help but agree. He wants to chastise himself for not noticing sooner. Noctis is--hopefully--a healthy adult. Of course he would pursue relationships. The confidence in each other displayed during the hunt, the ease with which they interacted--the _cooking_. Ignis had blinded himself to it until Noctis said it outright and now he must gain back the lost ground, restructure Prompto's place in their plans. Noctis may not have his adoptive parents anymore, but he isn't lacking in attachments.

“One thing at a time,” Ignis murmurs. “Our primary goal remains to return with Noctis.”

How exactly they’re going to do that remains to be seen, but Ignis is confident they can work with Gladio’s idea. Noctis might not immediately believe them about his blood, but if they approach with a potential solution to his pain… Ignis briefly mourns the all but definite lack of trust that is now between them, but shores up his resolve in turn. It’s a roadblock that he can and will work around, nothing more.

Prompto has shifted Noctis’ body around again when Ignis approaches him, clearly attempting to find the best way to balance Noctis’ dead weight so that he can stand.

Ignis stops just short of them. “I apologize for all of this,” he says softly. “Had I known this would happen, I would have chosen another opportunity to speak with you.”

“Uh. Thanks, I guess?” Prompto says quizzically. “I don’t know if that would have done anything either way. I just--listen, I appreciate the apology, but I really think we should just… go… now.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. He needs to recover now. I only thought to offer my assistance in getting him back to your room.”

Prompto weighs his options in silence. It doesn’t seem like he knows how to get Noctis across his shoulders--or, if he does, he’s reluctant to jostle Noctis that much. In the end, he nods hesitantly. “He’s kind of heavy.”

Ignis goes to Noctis’ side immediately and helps Prompto lift him off the ground. Theirs is an awkward shuffle toward the door as Prompto tries to hold Noctis closer to him while also allowing Ignis to shoulder some of the weight. Gladio holds the doors for them as they carry Noctis from one room to another and deposit him on the bed closest to the door. The covers are already messy while the other bed is untouched, another confirmation of their claim on each other.

Ignis apologizes again as Prompto all but shoos him and Gladio out again and shuts his door behind them.

Alone with the moths fluttering around the light above them, Gladio sighs. “That could have gone better.”

Ignis agrees entirely.

 

\--

 

He doesn’t want to be here anymore. Wherever  _here_ is, anyway. Limbo. A ditch on the side of the road. A pile of dead, rotting leaves.

He certainly feels like he could be in a pile of dead somethings, stretched thin and left to float between waking and not.

Whatever. He wants to go home.

He pokes at the nothingness around him. Nothing. Can’t be in a pile of something if there’s nothing.

Blankets. He wants blankets. This nothingness sucks. He tries to pull a blanket around him. Something cool presses back.

_“Noct.”_

There’s a voice again. He pokes at that. It’s a different voice than before, familiar but light. Good and safe.

He wants to be at home, where he’s surrounded by those things.

He tries to bring the blankets tighter around him because they summoned up the first inklings of something. The voice comes again, wavering now.

_"Six, Noct. Please don’t do that. C’mon, buddy.”_

Don’t do what?

Noctis pokes again, and  _tears_ when something gives.

By some blessing of the Astrals, Noctis’ headache is nearly gone when his awareness returns to him in full. For a moment, he’s afraid that he’s just not awake enough to feel it, but then other things are filtering through his senses as his consciousness wriggles its way back to reality, and the pain isn’t intensifying.

Instead, he feels vibrations under his body and something gripping his arm. He cracks his eyes open and blinks the smudges away to find Prompto’s right hand tight on his forearm. He follows the hand to Prompto’s arm, his shoulder, his face above him. He isn’t looking at Noctis, not for long. He keeps glancing down and then away. A light passes over Prompto’s face, again and again, and that’s when Noctis starts to take in other things.

He’s in their car, buckled into the passenger seat and leaning awkwardly against the door. It’s early morning and Prompto’s other hand is tight on the steering wheel as he drives like there’s an Iron Giant on his tail. His face is pinched and tight, and he has dark circles under his eyes, but when he glances over at Noctis again and finally makes eye contact, his eyes widen and he nearly swerves.

“Eyes on the road,” Noctis says hoarsely. He grimaces immediately and swallows. Why the hell does he feel so much like shit?

“Noct!” Prompto breathes. “Thank the Six you’re awake. Holy shit. Holy shit, Noct, I thought--you were all--”

“What’s going on?” Noctis cuts him off as he squints out the window. They’re not in the Taelpar area anymore. He doesn’t remember leaving it. He doesn’t remember much after the sun went down, really. Just bits and pieces. “Where are we?”

“Northbound, coming up on the Cauthess round,” Prompto says shortly. He licks his lips and glances at Noctis. “How do you feel?”

Like the tail end of bad. “Head hurts a bit. Throat’s dry. We got water up here?”

“Uh. Check the glove box.”

Noctis checks the glove box and finds a half-empty plastic water bottle. It tastes stale so he caps it after one sip and goes back to looking out the window. He can’t see the Disc of Cauthess yet, but the meteor is poking up above the hills on their right.

“Where are we going?”

“Home,” Prompto says simply. His right hand moves to the steering wheel. “You… you started talking in your sleep? You kept saying you wanted to go home, so I’m bringing you home.”

That’s right. He wants to go home. He wants to curl up in some blankets with Prompto. Somehow, he’d communicated that.

“We’ll get back to the apartment,” Prompto continues, “and I’ll make breakfast, and then we can relax. Ignis and Gladio can go back to--to doing whatever it is they usually do.”

Ignis and Gladio. Right. Shit. Noctis braces for his headache to worsen because that just seems to be his luck, but nothing happens. He just gets some foggy memories and the faint impression of the Six-awful pain that occupies all but his most recent memories. The car ride. The dream?

Ignis and Gladio, though. Who the hell are they? Noctis couldn’t make sense of what they’d said then and he’s not doing much better now.

“Did… they actually say I was a prince?” he asks with a cautious look at Prompto.

Prompto chews his bottom lip for a moment. Noctis has never seen him keep such a close eye on the road. Eventually, he says, “Yeah.”

A prince who went missing sixteen years ago, when his parents adopted a kid who could light candles with his bare hands. Noctis tries to recall some of his earliest memories. Home, in Old Lestallum. He can barely recall that one because they’d moved pretty early on to Lestallum. He knows he lived there for a year, though; went to school and everything. Even so, his parents hadn’t said anything about his adoption being unusual.

Sixteen years ago, they’d taken in a kid whose parents were killed by daemons. It’s sad to think about, maybe, but not unusual. Hunters can’t help everyone.

He can’t imagine having been somewhere else. Insomnia, the Crown City, is just a name to him. Something he hears on the radio and sees in late night documentaries.

Insomnia. Insomnia. Prince Noctis.

They’re just a bunch of words, concepts turning around and around. The old man. The car.

The king. The--

“Do _you_ think I’m a prince?”

Prompto hesitates. “I don’t know. Ignis said only certain people can use magic like you can, and you really do look at lot like the guy in those pictures. But it just sounds like a fairy tale, doesn’t it? It came out of nowhere.”

Noctis opens his mouth to respond, but the words stick. He doesn’t know how to explain the headaches and how they led to… wherever he wound up. And that’s gotta be what happened. He’s got no idea otherwise. His headaches have been all tied up with his magic recently, hurting him beyond the sparks of energy in his bones when he blinks, when he casts.

And then, the man in the photos--in the dream. The voice that he could swear was familiar. He tries to dig, to reach for  _why_ , but that’s when his head decides to pick up the spike again. He backs off; he’s too tired for this.

They’re supposed to be in tip-top shape and now he’s like this. Exhausted, lying across the front seat of the car while Prompto high tails it away from Ignis and Gladio and their strange, fancy car.

“What happened, Noct?” Prompto asks quietly. “You were screaming. Was your head hurting the whole time?”

“It was last night.” The instructions on the medication bottle said he should only take a certain amount of pills each day. Noctis doesn’t remember the number. He just knows he took more than the recommended amount and they didn’t help. Before that day, there were just on and off headaches. He thought he had some kind of head cold going on for a bit.

“Why didn’t you say anything then?”

Didn’t want him to worry. Didn’t want him to connect it to the magic. Didn’t want him to be-- “I thought pain killers would do the job. It’s fine now, though.”

It is, really. On the pain scale, the throbbing has gone all the way down to a one or two, leaving him more lethargic than anything. His head’s not doing anything weird anymore. He’s not hallucinating, or whatever it was he was doing.

He wishes he could use that to explain away the rest of it, too. The pictures, Ignis’ questions. How the hell would a prince get out here?

He can’t be that person, anyway.

“You sure?” Prompto asks. “I had no idea what was going on. What if something like that happens again?”

If it happens again… What if it’s worse? Maybe he’s overdoing it. Noctis doesn’t _feel_ like he’s pushed himself, not for a while, but still. Maybe it’s a long term thing. Maybe this has been a long time coming, just like… like what he did last year. He  _can’t_ do that again, though. Especially not if it gets worse.

Ignis had asked him where he’d learned it. He hadn’t learned it anywhere. He just does it. He’s learned how to do it all by himself. Did he learn it the wrong way?

Ignis had also claimed to know other people who can use magic. Or, he knows  _of_ them, at least. Would he know?

If he’d asked where Noctis learned his magic, does that mean a place exists for that purpose?  

Noctis rubs his eyes and tries to shake the questions away. It's never been so complicated before. Why is it now?

“I don’t know,” he says, finally.

It’s not a great answer. Prompto would have been concerned by literally anything else, so an uncertain answer is only about two steps up from preparing for the worst. He doesn’t want to prepare for that. There’s only one thing worse than what he’s already done with his magic.

“I don’t know,” he says again. “But it’s gonna be fine, okay? I’ll find a way to deal with it if--if something else happens. Trust me.”

“I do,” Prompto says, finally taking his eyes off the road for longer than half a second. It’s as good as he can do with both hands on the wheel of a moving vehicle, and it’s enough for Noctis.

“Okay, then. Wake me up when we get home,” he murmurs, closing his eyes again. He can hardly think clearly, but actual sleep will help.

“I will,” Prompto says. He sounds unsure but doesn’t argue. Then, nervously, he asks, “You’re just gonna take a nap, right?”

“Yeah, just a nap,” Noctis says. He frowns without looking up again. “Why?”

“Before you woke up, you were, uh…” Prompto’s hand wraps around Noctis’ arm again. “You kept going all shimmery like you were trying to blink somewhere or something. And like, you know I love your magic, I _do_ , but this is kind of a bad spot for it. While I’m riding the speed limit and all.”

Noctis blinks his eyes open to look at the speedometer. Prompto is indeed pushing the limits of both the road and their car a little bit. Noctis pulls his arm free to grab at Prompto’s hand. “Hey, slow down a little. It’s fine. I’m not going anywhere; I’m just gonna rest my eyes a bit.”

Prompto grips back, his fingers cool and firm. “All right. I’m holding you to that. Go to sleep, then. I’ll wake you up when we’re home.”

Noctis settles down again, head back against the seat, and lets the rumbling of the car lull him to sleep again. He almost expects to go somewhere again, to revisit the same dream again, but nothing but darkness greets him. Untethered nothingness, again.

Such is his regret for going back to it that it feels like no time has passed at all when he wakes up again, that he doesn’t fight the hand shaking his shoulder. The car is still and silent, now, and Prompto is talking to him through a powerful yawn.

“We’re almost home, Noct. Do you think you can walk the rest of the way?”

For all that he’s been out for hours, Noctis doesn’t feel all that well rested. He’s pretty sure he can get his legs under him to climb some stairs, though. He gathers up what energy he has and opens his eyes, frowning when dimness greets him. They’re in an underground parking garage, not far from their apartment. Of course. Why did he expect to see sunlight?

Prompto, unaware of his momentary confusion, leads Noctis away from their car by the arm, leaving everything they’d packed in the trunk. They ride an elevator up to the ground level and step out into the light of Avenue Flora, just a couple streets over from their apartment. The city is awake now and it’s all either of them can do to be polite in passing when familiar faces greet them. Six, they can both use a nap.

Noctis says as much when they finally get home, closing and locking the door of their apartment behind them. It’s exactly as they left it except for the dust gathered over the last couple of days. Even better, it’s quiet.

“C’mon,” Noctis mumbles, all but dragging Prompto past the kitchen. “Let’s just get a little more sleep. We can eat later.” Everything else can come later, too. All the names and conversations can come much, much later.

Prompto puts forth only the weakest protest and even that is cut off by a yawn. “Okay,” he says immediately after. “You’re right. I’m down for a break. Cook later, sleep now.”

They crawl into bed, finally under the blanket, and Noctis drifts off again almost as soon as he gets comfortable. Maybe he goes back to nothingness, maybe he doesn’t, but it’s so much easier when he’s in his own bed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Did that go anything like you imagine? I had so much fun figuring out the first half of this chapter, pulling a balancing act between things that are supposed to make sense and things that don't, and I really hope it was a good turn. 
> 
> I loved all the comments on the last chapter :D We've got a couple of the bigger plot points down and many more to go now, thank you so much for reading so far!


	8. bonds, calling

Gladio is awake to hear the awkward dance that is Prompto trying to get Noctis’ limp body into their vehicle, to hear that old black car roar to life. He knows that Ignis is awake, too, by the sound of the soft huff of breath after silence returns to the parking lot. He glances at his phone. It’s barely even five. They’re taking a risk, driving off when the sun hasn’t fully risen.

“Didn’t think we scared them off that bad,” Gladio says into the dimness of the room.

Ignis sighs into his pillow. “Somehow, I don’t think we were the only factor.”

“Hm. Maybe not. Should we get up, then?”

Ignis takes almost too long to respond. “No. We should allow some distance between us and them. We know where to find Prompto, anyhow. With any luck, they may even live together.”

Right. Boyfriends. Gladio had only half seen that coming. Ten years is a long time to get to know and get comfortable with someone, and so he hadn’t thought much of how tactile Prompto often got in the short time they’d been grouped up. He’s just that sort of guy, all happy and bouncy when his eyes aren’t trained down the barrel of his guns.

He can imagine what Noctis’ reaction to coming back to Insomnia on his own is now, and it goes something along the lines of “fuck off.” They might have to do a little more than make nice with Prompto.

“And if that fails,” Ignis pipes up again. “Then there’s still the Festival of the Hunt. Noctis will hopefully be in fighting shape again by next week, so we should be able to locate them in Old Lestallum then.”

Low on both sleep and luck, Gladio can’t say he’s too bothered by the Festival of the Hunt being legitimately included as a contingency. It’s one thing for it to be a distraction from the mission, and another for it to be one of their only shots at sticking close to Noctis. If it comes to it--if their luck doesn’t pick up again--maybe a chance to demonstrate their own magic tricks will help persuade Noctis.

Gladio tucks that away for something to consider later. If they’re not getting up and going, then he’s gonna squeeze in another hour or so of sleep.

He doesn’t know if Ignis does the same. He rolls over and falls back to sleep only to be woken again more than an hour later by Ignis telling him to get a run in if he wants to before they go.

He goes out into the cool morning air. Several of the vehicles that had been parked around the motel and the diner are gone now that the roads are safer again. The Vixen that had been parked next to the Regalia is one of them even though Gladio had kind of hoped that he’d misheard.

Nope. It’s just him and Ignis again. At least they have some real cash now.

So, he runs for a while. Longer than he’d gone with Prompto, until Ignis tells him they’re moving out in ten. He cleans up, they finish packing up, and they hit the road again. They come up to the turn to Old Lestallum and Gladio half wonders if they should check the place out, but Ignis drives right by it.

By early afternoon, they’re back in Lestallum. It’s hot as hell again, but this time it’s less of a hassle to get to the Leville, where the real AC is. Ignis uses their hard earned money to buy some more food and curatives and then… they wait.

And wait. If Ignis has anything else written on the schedule, he doesn’t share it. Which is fine because Gladio can read minds, specifically Ignis’.

The next morning, though, Gladio decides that staring at Ignis for prolonged periods of time over the top of his book is not actually a tried and true method of extracting information. It doesn’t get him anything except additional restlessness.

He goes for a run. Ignis tells him to be careful and he is. He’s friendly, he’s unassuming, and he doesn’t crash into anyone else.

That third-floor window on Avenue Delphi is covered up by dark curtains. No one takes pictures of the birds gathering on the wire. If Prompto isn’t there, then maybe he’s taking care of Noctis. Hopefully, Noctis has actually recovered.

When he gets back to the hotel room, Ignis is multitasking with his phone and handwritten notes next to his report folder. Gladio does the rest of his workout on the floor behind him. After, they do breakfast and then Ignis goes back to his scribbling while Gladio slowly makes his way through a book.

It doesn’t last much longer than an hour, the silence in the room broken only when Gladio flips pages and Ignis takes a blank one out of his folder. It’s too monotonous.

Gladio snaps the book shut and drops it on his pillow in favour of taking a peek at the neat handwriting over Ignis’ shoulder. He finds a series of loosely organized notes on a whole myriad of topics, all in smooth, slanted script. Voretooth habits; hunting protocols; forageable plants (Gladio could have told him that). The Festival of the Hunt is mentioned underneath a couple pages. And daemons. Lots and lots of daemons.

Underneath all of it, though, is a partial note that peeks out from the very bottom: _no carrots_.

There’s practically a stack of paper on the desk. Everything they might want to know to go on a hunting spree with Noctis. Hm.

“Thought of something, Iggy?” Gladio asks. Stalling is stalling, but he doesn’t typically enjoy going for the throat from the get-go with Ignis.

“I thought it best to prepare for several possibilities,” Ignis replies distantly.

“Are you banking on the festival that much? That doesn’t even begin for a few days yet, nevermind when it ends.”

“So, I should not look into it at all.”

“It’s just a long time with no progress at this point, don’t you think?”

Ignis sets his pen down but doesn’t look up from his notes. “Do you have ideas as to how to accomplish our goal before it begins? We’re left with five days, excluding today.”

Gladio sits down on his bed again. “Well, for starters, we can figure out where Noctis is, exactly.”

“Presumably, somewhere nearby until next week,” Ignis says. “According to Prompto, they have no intentions of taking on any more hunts until then, as you’ll recall.”

“Kinda vague, though,” Gladio drawls. “Especially for you.”

“Apologies,” Ignis says as he turns in his chair, hooking one arm over the back of it. “Would you prefer Noctis not be involved in the festival?”

Kind of. Mostly--but not. The Festival of the Hunt sounds badass and Gladio actually likes the idea of getting to really test himself out in the field. He’s never fought daemons before. He’s never protected a prince before, either. Two birds, one stone. And yet.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says, “that stuff sounds right up our alley, but I still think time is of the essence here. The longer he’s running around blasting his marks to hell and back with fire and lightning, the more likely it is that he’ll be known by more than just the hunters before we can make sure he’s safe.”

On top of that, there’s Noctis’ health. King Regis’ health. There’s nothing more they can do for the king than this, so they need to be on the ball.

Ignis nods solemnly. “That is true. How to approach him again, though…”

“I find that walking right up to people helps most of the time,” Gladio says simply. Ignis levels him with a flat look, and he chuckles. “I’m just saying. If we’re overthinking then he probably is, too. The news didn’t exactly go over that well.”

Gladio’s not actually too sure of that, but that’s his gut feeling. By the time they’d finally gotten to the actual meat of the conversation, Noctis had been in too much pain to take anything well. What he thinks of it all now is anyone’s guess.

They need to act, though, not guess. The sooner they can properly explain things, the better.

“We’ll need to find him first, at any rate,” Ignis says, finally coming around. Good.  

“Can’t bet that hard, can it?” Gladio gestures to the black folder balanced on the edge of the desk. “We’ve got the boyfriend’s address. Most of it, anyway.”

“We won’t antagonize Prompto,” Ignis says sharply. He settles quickly and sends a thoughtful look out the window. “If we carefully explain the situation to him, he may open the door for us.”

“We did explain it,” Gladio points out. Granted, they probably could have done a better job, but still. They got distracted. “Noctis is a prince and we’re here to bring him home. Kid still hauled ass outta there.”

Ignis sniffs. “Yes, well, now we have the opportunity to apply a more gentle touch.” He turns back toward his notes. “I will investigate that address. Then, tomorrow…”

He lets Gladio fill in the rest, after which Gladio flops back on the bed and run his hand down his face. They’ve gone a bit backwards. He’s not sure how long he can take sitting on a bed or reading a book. He has a mission, a  _purpose_. The king had looked him in the eye and asked him to find his son, to bring him home--to  _protect_ him. Amicitias have not historically been known to be able to carry out their duty from a hotel room halfway across the city. And Ignis--

Gladio sits up. “What did the king ask you to do?”

The smooth sound of Ignis’ pen pauses again. He answers evenly, “To find Prince Noctis and return him safely to the Citadel.”

Gladio shakes his head even though Ignis isn’t facing him. “No, not that. Years ago, back when you first met Noctis. His Majesty said he asked something of you. What did he ask you to do?”

Ignis meets him with silence at first. Eventually, he sets his pen down again and turns around again, his posture stiff. “He asked that I do my best to help him as per my duties as his retainer.” His shoulders begin to droop and Gladio wonders with some unease about the weight that’s settled there. Quietly, Ignis says, “He asked me to take care of Noctis. And to be his friend.”

Gladio remembers, again, that six-year-old kid who had to excuse himself from the dinner table, again and again, until the day, a year later, he never saw Ignis cry again. And he tries to keep a straight face--because  _hell,_ that explains the carrots note and, well, a few other things.

His duty has always come first. When they were kids, when he barely even knew Noctis, they had an okay relationship. He sometimes humoured Noctis when he got rowdy, but he was always focused on how he was supposed to grow up to be a Shield like his father and his father’s father, and so on. Regardless of everything else, Gladio had been born to  _protect_. To be close to Noctis, like his father is close to King Regis, had always been a secondary concern. A nice idea, sure, but ultimately unnecessary to carry out his job.

Ignis, on the other hand, is apparently proceeding from the complete opposite direction.

Something must slip through Gladio’s facade because then Ignis rolls his shoulders back and meets Gladio’s gaze head-on, and it’s a wonder that his green eyes don’t turn orange with the fire in them.

“Rest assured, Gladio, I have every intention of succeeding in our mission. The situation may be delicate, but I see no future in which we will fail.”

Gladio stands up and crosses the two steps between the bed and the desk to squeeze Ignis’ shoulder. “I know that. I get it, Iggy. I’m just…”

“A tad restless?” Ignis offers, softer now.

“I can’t help it,” Gladio says, sighing. He wanders toward the window, letting his arms swing in the hopes that they throw off some of the excess energy running in his bones. It doesn’t work all that much.

“You’re not the only one,” Ignis admits. “I’m as keen as you are to see this through.”

Gladio snorts and turns back around. “Yeah, but you’re also hogging all the nerves.” He makes a grabbing motion at Ignis’ startled face. “C’mon, cough ‘em up.”

Ignis blinks behind his glasses as if that would be enough to convince Gladio that he is not, in fact, anxious enough for the both of them. “I am not  _hogging all the nerves_ ,” he retorts.

“You are,” Gladio says easily, repeating the gesture. “There’s two of us; we can go halfsies.”

“The only thing we can arguably go ‘halfsies’ on is funds and toiletries.”

“And nerves.” Gladio lifts Ignis’ arm from the back of his chair so that he can clasp his forearm. “Listen, the king wouldn’t have sent us out alone if he didn’t think we could do this. And we will, one way or another. You’re not on your own, here.”

Ignis rotates his hand slowly so that he can wrap his long fingers around Gladio’s arm in turn. “I understand,” he says gently. “Thank you, Gladio.”

“Don’t forget that we’re a team,” Gladio says before withdrawing. “I’m gonna take a walk, see if moving around a bit won’t help. How about you tell me what you’ve got going here when I get back?”

Ignis nods, smiling faintly, and it’s the first time all morning that he’s moved so loosely.  

 

\--

 

Gladio walks. It takes him longer to reach the fountain plaza than it did when he jogged. It takes even longer to reach the spice shop on Avenue Delphi.

The lobby on the second floor of the building is tiny and somewhat dim. It’s not like the apartment buildings he’s lived in or visited in Insomnia; there’s no buzzer to get through, just a wide hallway and a set of stairs before the second-floor apartments, which groan under his weight.

There are only three apartments on the third floor, dark wood framed by faded green wallpaper. One of them has a wreath of false flowers pinned over the knocker. Another has a small wooden fish hanging from it. Gladio takes a wild guess.

He strains to hear sound from beyond the door and worries briefly that no one is home, but then he catches muffled sounds from beyond the door. He tries his best to look casual as the sounds of someone moving stop again, the person on the other side of the door still and quiet for a long time.

A chain rattles quietly and the door cracks open. Prompto peeks out from the other side, his brow furrowed under messy bangs, and immediately makes a wordless sound of confusion.

Gladio holds up a hand in a non-threatening gesture. “Hey, Prompto. I just want to talk to you, that’s all. You don’t have to let me in or anything.”

Prompto blinks at him. Then he asks slowly, “How did you get here?”

“How did I find you, you mean?” Gladio rubs the back of his head. “Remember when we ran into each other?”

Prompto finally shows some of his usual liveliness in the form of his ire. He sputters and then hisses, “You followed me _all_ the way here?”

Gladio can picture Ignis’ particular noise of disapproval in his head as he scrambles to reply. “Yeah. I know that sounds creepy, but hear me out. I--Ignis and I needed to find Noctis and the only lead we had was you.”

Gladio does not say a word about having already seen Noctis before that morning. If Prompto doesn’t already know that Ignis almost hit his boyfriend with their car then Gladio doesn’t want to be the one to tell him.

“Why?” Prompto whispers.

“We told you why,” Gladio answers, just as quiet. “Well, we tried to. If you want to know more then it’s gotta be somewhere other than right here.”

Prompto gives him a once over and then ducks out of sight for a few seconds. Through the crack of the open door, Gladio can only see a beige wall and pale tile flooring, and Prompto’s fingers wrapped around the edge of the door. From the other side, Prompto sighs and then reappears.

“Hang on,” he says before shutting the door. Gladio hears his footsteps moving away. Heavier footsteps return a moment later and then the door opens again. It opens just enough for Gladio to get a glimpse of the apartment behind Prompto as he steps out in a pair of worn out shoes.

There’s a hallway painted beige and decorated with photographs; shoes are piled near the door and a bicycle--the one Noctis had been riding--leans against the wall nearby. There are a few doors on the right side of the hall and open doorways on the other. The first one might lead to a living room. Prompto shuts the door and locks it behind him before Gladio can tell for sure.

“Let’s go for a walk, then,” he says, sidling past Gladio and heading for the stairs. He doesn’t mention anything about Noctis, even though Gladio is now all but certain that he lives here, too.

He still breathes a sigh of relief as he follows Prompto back into the street, though. If this hadn’t worked then Ignis would have inevitably found out and might have needed to do more damage control than he already needs to.

They don’t go far. Prompto leads them to a small, busy square where people are moving through constantly to the tune of a small street band playing on one side. They sit on a bench on the opposite end, where everyone who pauses ignores them in favour of the musicians, and Prompto stares straight ahead for what feels like an entire age.

Then, he hikes his left leg up to rest his chin on his knee and says, “So, like… you guys are serious? You actually think Noct is supposed royalty?”

Gladio nods. “Yep.”

“You think he’s the prince that went missing.”

“Kidnapped,” Gladio replies. “Someone kidnapped him when he was a kid. Don’t ask me how he got out here. If we knew, he wouldn’t still be here.”

Prompto tenses a bit. “And you think he’s the same person because of his magic.”

“Not just that,” Gladio reminds him. “You said it yourself. He looks a bit too much like the king to just be any old hunter, don’t you think?”

Prompto sighs noncommittally and goes back to people watching. He isn’t as anxious as he was on either of the nights that Gladio had seen him before. Instead, he’s more subdued and understandably guarded.

Gladio sighs, too. “Did Ignis tell you who we were?”

“He said you’re some kind of retainers,” Prompto answers. “You’re supposed to be helping nobles or something.”

“More or less,” Gladio says, shrugging. “But it’s more than that. We’re not supposed to be helping just anyone; we’re Noctis’ retainers.” He inhales deeply and then corrects himself. “We  _were_ his retainers.”

Prompto blinks and turns his head slightly. “Were?”

“Back when we were kids,” Gladio explains, clenching his hands. “Ignis and I were meant to be at his side. We were supposed to help him, eventually, but then one night… he was gone. We never knew what happened to him. A lot of people thought he was dead. We lost a friend; King Regis lost his son.”

Prompto looks away again, opening and closing his mouth. Gladio waits patiently for him to figure out what he wants to say. “And--King Regis? He sent you out here?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Just the two of you.”

“Just the two of us. He said to us, 'find Noctis and bring him home.' Because we’re supposed to be at his side.” Gladio leans over. “You getting all this?”

Prompto mumbles, forcing Gladio to lean closer to hear him over the hustle and bustle of the square beyond their bench. “He is home.”

Gladio shakes his head. “No. Someone took that away from him, took a kid away from his family--”

“He’s not a _kid_ ,” Prompto interrupts, louder again. “What’s wrong with the home he has now? He’s been doing just fine.”

If Prompto’s definition of “just fine” is severe headaches and fainting fits, Gladio fears for what he considers a bad time. He crosses his arms and asks, “Has he?”

Prompto purses his lips and side-eyes Gladio. Then, he sighs and leans back, letting his leg slide back to the ground. “Fine, then. What if we go there? To Insomnia. What happens then?”

Gladio shrugs.

“You don’t know?” Prompto asks, squinting doubtfully.

For a split second, Gladio feels like a voretooth looking at the business end of a gun with only another half-second left on the clock. He flounders in that time to think of what Ignis would say--not the Ignis trying to sort out the most efficient plan of action, but the Ignis trying to rebuild a bond.

“What happens after he gets home is an entirely different order of business,” he clarifies. “But my guess is that, well… His dad would like to see him. It’s been a long time.”

Prompto’s expression softens as he turns away to look at the ground. “I guess so,” he murmurs. “So why tell me all this?”

“Because what happened the other night--that wasn’t how we wanted things to go at all,” Gladio says. The pain, the screaming. Them booking it at the crack of dawn. None of that was supposed to happen. “At that point, we just wanted to talk, but I think we really got off on the wrong foot.”

“Yeah,” Prompto sighs. “The stalking thing was kind of weird, and now I can’t stop thinking about that dinner. That so wasn’t just about dinner, was it? Does Ignis even _like_ cooking?”

“He does,” Gladio says, nodding. The dinner wasn’t without its ulterior motives, but only barely. Ignis just wanted to chat, really. Gladio recognizes that now. “Ignis actually does like cooking. Helps him chill out.”

“Oh.” Prompto angles himself toward Gladio slightly, still somewhat wary. He doesn’t look like he’s going to try and knock Gladio’s block off in the middle of the street now, though, so Gladio considers it progress. “So, like… you guys are back for a second chance.”

“And any chance after that, honestly,” Gladio replies. “Whatever it takes to bring him home.”

Prompto gets a sort of pinched look on his face again. “I’m getting that vibe, but it’s not like we’re just gonna up and go anywhere.”

“We?” Gladio asks before he can stop himself. It’s the second time now that Prompto’s said it and Gladio should have known better than to question it because Prompto immediately leans back against the arm of the bench, all gears shifted from wary to downright insulted.

“Well, _yeah_ ,” he exclaims, staring at Gladio like he’s got an extra limb. “If Noct decides to go, like, anywhere, I’m totally going with him. I’m his best friend.”

“Not his boyfriend?”

“The making out came after deciding to stick together,” Prompto says flippantly. He tilts his chin up defensively. “Besides, I already told you he’s got a home here. He’s got friends and a job. And he’s a hunter. He’s not some kid you can waltz in and haul off with.”

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Ignis tells Gladio that he’s starting to push his luck. He holds his hands up, quietly surrendering. “I know that. I know he has a life, and that he’s not the kid I knew anymore. We don’t know each other anymore. That’s  _why_ we want to talk to him again. That’s it. We just want to talk.”

Prompto gives Gladio a slow once-over and it almost makes Gladio feel like he’s being judged by Ignis, every flick of his eye trying to pick out something in Gladio’s words, his posture, that might give away some darker intention. After a long moment, he simmers down again and says, “If Noct wants to talk to you, then I can’t stop you.”

“You think he’ll let us?” Gladio asks hopefully.

Prompto shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t--look, I can see what he thinks now that he’s feeling better, but I won’t give you any promises.”

“Can’t ask for any,” Gladio says, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. It’s not a lot, but it’s something. “And he is? Doing better, I mean.”

“Yeah. He’s okay.”

“That’s good. He had us worried.” Gladio digs into his pocket and pulls out the folded note he’d taken before leaving the hotel. It’s just his and Ignis’ room number scribbled on a sheet of hotel stationery. He hands it to Prompto. “That’s where we are right now if he’s up for it.”

Prompto takes the note gingerly. He unfolds it to peek at the number and then shoves it in his own pocket. “We’ll see,” he says. “We, um. We’re hitting the road again soon. Festival of the Hunt’s coming up and all, and we’re going fishing before then.”

“He really likes fish, huh?” Gladio asks lightly.

Prompto offers him a small smile. “Yeah. So, uh, jot that down.”

“I’ll get right on that,” Gladio says as he rises to his feet again. “I’ll get out of your hair, now. Just one last thing, though.”

Prompto remains on the bench, squinting up at him against the light of the sun. “What?”

“I know we don’t really know each other, but it sounds like Noctis is pretty lucky to have you.”

And he means that, too. Prompto might wring his hands between words, wired constantly with nervous energy, but he is nevertheless on Gladio’s case about Noctis. Not a word about where Noctis might be or when and where this fishing trip is actually happening has left his lips--and not a chance in hell that Noctis is doing anything on his own. That’s some dedication and Gladio can respect that.

“You know it, dude,” Prompto says with a lopsided grin, the first and only time he’s let his guard down at all. He waves quickly, and Gladio buries his hands in his pockets and leaves.

He crosses the square, passing the musicians again, and when he glances back at the bench over his shoulder, Prompto is gone.

 

\--

 

Prompto’s heart is pounding as he speedwalks the long way back home. Not as hard as it had been when he’d gone to check the door and found  _Gladio_ standing there in all his bulky glory, Six above, but hard enough.

Noctis, a prince. His boyfriend, royalty. No matter how wild it sounds, Gladio is as certain about it as he is about the sky being blue and grass being green.

Prompto tries to picture it and is only half successful. Noctis could probably manage a crown, but he’d choke in a suit. The only manners he knows are what his mom taught him and what they’ve seen in movies. They both also fell asleep several times in class, so it’s not like either of them is hot on history or… whatever royals know.

All in all, Noctis isn’t a prince.

According to Gladio and Ignis, though, he was supposed to be. Is supposed to be. Astrals.

Prompto doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel about it. Excited? That seems logical. They’re both adopted kids, him and Noctis. Noctis’ parents said that his dad found Noctis during a hunt, the only one still alive after a daemon ambush near Old Lestallum. Prompto has vague memories of a narrow apartment squished into a south side street in Lestallum, others of a slightly larger but much more crowded unit. He remembers living near the power plant, too, until his foster parent decided that child care wasn’t for them a few months later. Before all that, though, nothing.

When they were younger, they’d come up with all sorts of wild stories, pretending that they were secretly a couple of super important, powerful people and that their birth families were looking for them. The stars were the limit when it came to explaining Noctis’ magic.

So, why isn’t he excited now that it all seems to be true for Noctis? Why does the thought make him feel like a rope is being tied around his heart and lungs?

Noctis is special. His birth family--still alive, somehow--has been looking for him for years. They want him to go home. Not to the apartment that he’s shared with Prompto for almost two years, but to some distant place that has been nigh unreachable to them. A place they’ve never seen before.

And Prompto… Prompto has no idea where he’s from, still.

Prompto has always wanted to see Insomnia, though, even just for a day. Safe behind its wall, he knows it’s huge and filled with technologies way more advanced than what Prompto’s ever held. He’d probably get lost but he could spend ages exploring with Noctis, getting to know that far away place. The only issues he’s ever had are money and the fact that the Crown City, surrounded by that wall, is notoriously difficult to get into. Unless everything he knows and loves is gone to fire and dust, Prompto doesn’t have a chance in hell of getting in because even though everyone else has left him, he still has the apartment and he still has Noctis.

Unless Noctis goes...back. He’d want Prompto to come with him, right? The fantasies they’d concocted never included anything like a happily ever after without the other. If Prompto’s birth parents found him and he went back somewhere, he’d want Noctis to come with him. They’re family.  

No matter where they go, Prompto wants to do his best to stick with Noctis.

That’s the thought he repeats to himself as he unlocks the apartment door and slips back inside. They stick together, him and Noctis.

It’s mostly quiet inside. Noctis had been dozing when Prompto had left, and now he’s in the kitchen, pouring cereal into a bowl. He still has his pajama pants on and his hair is sleep frazzled as he grabs an extra handful of cereal right out of the box, and yes, this is where Prompto wants to be. There’s no milk because they hadn’t actually planned to be here much this week, so Noctis just settles for eating it dry as Prompto pecks him on the cheek and then drops himself into a chair at the table.

“Good walk?” Noctis asks after swallowing his first mouthful of chocolate puffs. He scoops another out of the bowl with his hand as he takes the other chair.

“Yeah, yeah, it was fine.” Prompto stretches his arms and then folds them across the table before resting his chin on them. Then he says, as casually as he can, “The fancy squad knows where we live.”

Noctis reacts in an entirely understandable, if not kind of gross way. “What?” he exclaims, except he still has chewed up cereal in his mouth and it puts in a strong effort to return to the bowl it came from. Noctis scrambles to clean himself up and then says with an empty mouth, “The  _fancy squad_ \--they’re here?”

Prompto shakes his head quickly. “No, no, no! Gladio was, though, and I didn’t let him in.”

Noctis stares hard at the table, his hand hovering over his cereal. Eventually, he decides against taking another handful and moves his hand instead to prop up his forehead. “What did he want?”

To take Noctis home, take him away.

“To talk to you,” Prompto says, “seeing as we all got off on the wrong foot. He seemed kind of…” Worried might be a good word. Anxious doesn’t suit a guy like Gladio. “I dunno. It just sounded like that’s all he wanted to do.”

Noctis sighs quietly, rubbing his skin under his bangs absentmindedly. Prompto is concerned briefly that he’s having yet another headache, but then he moves his hand to his chin and asks, “That’s it?”

Prompto shrugs and sits up. “Apparently. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Noctis says softly. Then, “I don’t know.”

“Do you feel sick or--”

Noctis shakes his head. “No, I mean--I feel fine, honestly. I just… don’t know what I’m supposed to think about all that stuff.” He gestures at the table like “all that stuff” is spread across it around his cereal.  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to be a prince. At first I was kind of hoping I was hearing things, making stuff up out of gibberish, but apparently, I wasn’t.”

“They do seem pretty adamant about it,” Prompto muses. “So, what  _do_ you think about it?”

“I think…” Noctis trails off as he shifts to slouch against the back of his chair. “Either they’re telling the truth or they’re not. Either my mom and dad lied, or they didn’t. And I don’t want…”

Prompto stops himself from wincing by pushing himself around to the other side of the table. Noctis doesn’t take the offered shoulder, but Prompto scoots close enough for it anyway.

Noctis doesn’t even continue with the same train of thought. Instead, he turns to Prompto and asks, “What do you think about it? About what they said?”

“Me?” Prompto blinks. “I’m not the one who they think is the long lost prince.”

“Maybe not, but I wanna hear it anyway,” Noctis says unwaveringly. “I want to hear what you think, Prom.”

Prompto thinks that, prince or not, magic or no magic, Noctis really is someone special. Someone whose side Prompto wants to be at because Noctis has always been at  _his_ side. When Prompto thought he’d finally found people who  _wanted_ him, they never wanted him back. Not until he met Noctis and his family, who treated him like one of their own.

He doesn’t want to think that Noctis’ parents were liars, either. His dad, a hunter, and his mom, working hard at the power plant. They loved Noctis, and they were never bothered when Prompto visited their apartment for long periods of time. They were good people who couldn’t have been the kind to steal a prince. No way. That’s not how Prompto wants them to be remembered.

He takes a deep breath and bumps his shoulder against Noctis’. “I think that no matter what’s true and what’s not, you gotta be the one to tell ‘em what’s what. They’re not gonna stop otherwise.” He slings his arm around Noctis’ shoulders. “And no matter what you choose, I’m gonna be right there with ya.”

Noctis’ back is still tense, which doesn’t bode well for the rest of the conversation. “Really?”

“Totally.”

“Even though it might put you in danger?”

“I’m familiar with danger,” Prompto says nonchalantly, “what with us being hunters and all.”

“Most hunters don’t strike their partners with lightning,” Noctis replies dryly.

This again. Their last night in the motel flickers through Prompto’s mind again. Noctis hurting in more ways than one and Prompto struggling with the incessant guilt because not only did he mess up during last year’s festival, he’d let Noctis think he was to blame--he’d let Noctis think he was  _afraid_ of him.

What a _mess_.  

“I was never scared of you,” Prompto says insistently.

Not in all the time they’ve fought together, not even after the Festival of the Hunt last year. Noctis’ magic is surreal, almost too beautiful for a battlefield. But at the same time, a single spell had been enough to nearly tear him apart. The greatest lightning strike Prompto has ever seen, so blinding and powerful that the thunder that had followed still rattles in his bones sometimes, came with a price. Now, Prompto sees Noctis blink and he knows it chips away at his stamina, and despite how good Noctis might be at controlling it now, Prompto still doesn’t know how deep that well is.

“I was scared  _for_ you,” he continues. “When I see you using magic, I never know where your limit is. You getting yourself almost killed--that’s what scares me, Noct.”

Noctis shakes his head. “That was my own fault,” he says stiffly. “What happens to me because of my magic, that’s on me. You shouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

Prompto’s knee aches sometimes. Some days it’s a dull ache that tells him a storm is coming. Other days it’s the white-hot pain of steel and the burn of lightning replaying in his bones, making his muscles complain under his weight and his scar sensitive to touch.

That the lightning had come from Noctis’ own hand hadn’t even crossed his mind in the second that it happened. In his memory, all he sees is the Ronin slashing deep into his leg--after he’d failed three times in a row to shoot it himself. Then, the Ronin is gone and all he can see is Noctis staggering around with a sickly violet aura flickering across his skin, blood streaming from his nose as he collapses because his bones wouldn’t hold him up the right way.

“You wouldn’t have had to use the spell if I’d done my job,” Prompto says hollowly.

Noctis shoots up to his feet, knocking his chair back and all but shoving Prompto’s hand away in the process. He grips the edge of the table tightly, knuckles and fingertips white. “That daemon didn’t come out of nowhere, Prom,” he snaps. Then, after a shuddering breath, he says, “We were a  _team_. I was supposed to have your back, but I didn’t. I saw that thing coming and I didn’t do anything to stop it.  _I_ got cocky and  _you_ got hurt.”

Prompto is speechless as Noctis steps back and sinks into his chair, burying his face in his hands. In the silence of their kitchen, he replays the memory again and--he doesn’t know where the Ronin came from. He’d been focused on the imps they were trying to put down. One moment, he’d gotten a perfect shot lined up. The next, he’d spotted frayed threads fluttering through his scope and looked up to see a gaunt figure towering over them all. Which shadow it had materialized form was no longer a concern, not compared to the threat it posed to Noctis’ turned back, or to Prompto himself.

“I’m sorry,” Noctis says weakly.

He’d seen the Ronin coming, allowed a daemon so much more dangerous than imps to slip past his watchful eye. He’d let it get to Prompto, who’d panicked and very nearly ran before his right leg went out from under him. Then, lightning. Then, Noctis-- _not dead, not dead, not dead_.

Prompto tries to dig for the emotion Noctis must want him to feel. Some kind of disappointment? Anger stronger than the guilt they’ve been wrestling with? He finds none of it. Instead, a knot in his chest loosens, but only just. Noctis wants to shoulder all the blame, but Prompto still can’t let him.

He has to push his chair back a few inches to get to Noctis’ side again. He leans against him and murmurs, “I’m sorry, too.”

Noctis lifts his face away from his hands just slightly. His palms are damp. “What?”

“I said I’m sorry--”

“I heard  _that_ part.” Noctis sniffs and turns toward Prompto. His eyes are watery and some of his lashes are sticking together, and every twitch of his brows, his lips, exudes a cocktail of guilt and confusion. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Prompto steadies himself with a few deep breaths and blinks away a stinging blurriness in his eyes as he wraps his arm around Noctis again. “We’re a team, Noct. We were then, too. We should have handled it together.”

Noctis stares at him with the same painful expression at first, then lowers his gaze back to his lap. For a long moment, he’s quiet as he presses his fingers against his eyes and tries to clear up his congested nose. Then, he asks, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“About not wanting you to keep beating yourself up about this?” Prompto flashes him a grin even though his voice still feels thick in his throat. “Yeah, dude.”

“How are you--” Noctis looks up again, eyes pink but clear, if not still unsure. “You said your knee wasn’t gonna get any better. You should be mad, or  _something_.”

Prompto shakes his head. “I had a shot at helping myself and I fucked it. We both fucked it. So, we can both take the fall, can’t we?”

Noctis is quiet again for a while. His eyes skitter back and forth between Prompto and his lap, the table and the forgotten bowl of cereal. Prompto worries as the seconds tick by that Noctis still won’t accept his part in it all, won’t accept that he wants them to stand side by side, but then, finally, Noctis leans back against him.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says with a huff.

“But in a good way, right?”

“Yeah,” Noctis says, laughing faintly. He shifts closer to kiss Prompto’s cheek first, then his lips, his lashes still damp where they brush Prompto’s skin.

“Was that why you didn’t think you could be royalty?” Prompto asks softly as he moves as close as he dares while they’re still seated on separate chairs. It’s only a scant couple of inches, but the shift allows him to sit shoulder to shoulder with Noctis with minimal leaning.

Noctis makes an unintelligible noise in the back of his throat and then says, “What kind of prince hurts the people they love?”

Prompto ducks his head reflexively, which makes Noctis’ next kiss land on the crown of his head. It’s been more than a year since Noctis first pulled him close with an arm around his back and whispered, breath warm on Prompto’s ear, “You know I’m in love with you, right?” and Prompto still can’t get over it most days. That they’re here, still, and Noctis still wants his attention. He wants to get out of his chair so that he can kiss Noctis deeply without falling onto the floor, return the affection tenfold and then maybe take it out of the kitchen, but he reigns himself in, if only just. Instead, he pulls the folded stationary out of his pocket and holds it up in front of Noctis.

“You should take this, then,” he says. “Because I forgave you ages ago.”

“What is it?” Noctis asks, taking the note in one hand and unfolding it. Under the Lestallum Leville’s address and phone number is _306_ scrawled in pen and nothing else aside from the fancy border design.

“Gladio gave that to me,” Prompto explains. “I guess it’s their room number if you’re up for talking.”

Noctis folds the paper again slowly. “I’ll think about it.”

“Yeah?”

Noctis hesitates but then nods shortly after. “Yeah. You want me to, right?”

Maybe it’s the desire to sweep all the confusion of the last few days away, to keep some part of their lives on track, or the confirmation that Noctis wants him around, but Prompto finds himself able to reply almost immediately. “I mean, sure, but if you don’t want to--”

“I want to,” Noctis says, cutting off any more doubt. “I want to hear the full story from  _somebody_ , and they’re the closest I’m gonna get. So… I’ll see what they have to say.” He pockets the note, then finally reaches for the chocolate cereal again. “Later, though. We didn’t bring any snacks out of the car and I’m starving.”

Prompto snorts and snatches a handful of cereal, too. The motion comes easily, too light in the moments after a weighted conversation to be worthy of being considered daring. Noctis not only lets him have it but he brings the bowl closer so that they can share.

Yes. This is where he wants to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took ages to write because there was so much talking. Important conversations needed to be had, no distractions allowed :0 But everyone toughed it out and got around the bend, and now we're getting places. Ignis and Gladio are starting to get on the same page with each other, and Noctis and Prompto are starting to get there, too. I'm very much looking forward to the things coming up next...
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments on the last chapter! I'm not much of a note keeper but looking back at the comments always helps me remember when and where I want to address parts of the story :D


	9. the bridges

In the album, there is a photograph of a woman and a small child. The paper is old and the edges are worn. The upper right corner has a small tear in it; the lower left has a fold faded white. The woman is smiling at the camera, hazel eyes bright with laughter behind a pair of glasses with one cracked lens. One of her arms is raised as she brushes away pale brown hair while the other is wrapped around the child in her lap.

The child isn’t looking at the camera, nor is he smiling. He is entirely preoccupied with an empty candy dispenser in his hands, blue eyes narrowed and lips drawn down in a pout. His black hair is messy and pieces of shiny confetti are tangled amongst the locks.

Blue pen marks the back of the picture, slipped free of its sleeve.  _Valya and Noctis, 740._ Old brown smudges litter the paper around the letters, dirt from a weathered hunter’s fingers.

 There is another photograph on the opposite page, the corners clean and sharp. A man is kneeling next to the young boy near the edge of a riverside dock, the water and sky brilliant blue behind them. The man is holding a fishing rod in one hand and tipping the edge of his hat up with the other, lifting the shade away from dark brown hair and eyes, his face crinkled in a grin. On his right, Noctis is holding a small rainbow trout high in his small hands, his face and body blurred in slight motion, the expression of his delight.

Black pen marks the back of the picture, the letters larger and smoother. _Roman, Noctis - Wennath, 742._ There are tiny indents on each of the four sides of the picture, remnants of the pressure marks left by the picture’s original frame.

Noctis runs his fingers over the edges of them. He’s careful with the first. It’s smaller and its edges are delicate. He’s got a hunter’s hands like his dad did, and the picture had already spent years travelling in his dad’s wallet before going into the album. The other picture is still sharp enough that it could almost give him a paper cut if not for the toughened skin of his fingers.

There are other pictures. Better ones, more recent ones. But these are among the first, slipped into the sleeves of the second and third pages by Prompto when the album was first created.

Noctis glances behind him to check on the sleeping lump under the blanket as if disturbing the album could have woken Prompto up from his nap. Nothing. Noctis returns to the album, balancing it on his hand and the edge of the dresser from which he’d pulled it. His free hand hovers over the pictures, asking questions they can’t answer.

740\. The picture was taken just over a year after he was adopted by the same family who took him in as a kid. He remembers the candy dispenser, remembers carrying it around with him in sticky hands until they ran out of candy to put in it two weeks after his birthday, which they always celebrated near the end of September because that was when his dad found him. Because they didn’t know it, otherwise.

Noctis had known two things at the time--his name, and the fact that he was four. There had been nothing else because sometimes things so terrible happen that the mind has no choice but to cut them away and wrap them up tight, taking whatever it sees fit as collateral damage. That’s what he knows, anyway. His brain wanted to protect itself, so it left his future self--his current self--to deal with it.

Except, having been given a generally happy life, he’s never had much reason to genuinely question what came before. His parents told him what they’d known and that was that, even though Noctis now knows that there are some things they just wouldn’t tell a kid. A four, five, six year old would hardly understand. They’d waited years to tell him what his dad’s job away from home actually entailed, to explain the intricacies of his mom’s job after he’d first asked.

“We’ll tell you more when you’re older,” they’d said, hands gentle as they pat his hair.

But now he’s older and they’re gone, and he wishes more than ever that a simple picture could hold all the answers.

What is he supposed to be  _doing?_

The images offer very little that he doesn’t already know, though.

The folded piece of flimsy stationery, on the other hand, sits like a jagged rock in his pocket, one corner pressing in on his thigh. Somebody else has the answers--and if not, then they have connections.

Noctis slides the photos back into the album and shuts it carefully. Checking over his shoulder again, he places the book back into the first drawer of the dresser and pushes it closed, too. The light is starting to turn dim as the afternoon drifts toward evening, a faint gold dusting drifting across the bed. Prompto is still sleeping, but only just, his body curled loosely on his belly under the blanket while his face is pressed into the pillow, facing away from the window. He looks peaceful now but he’ll wake up soon and then try to stay awake for as long as possible during the night in an effort to flip his sleep schedule before the festival.

Noctis considers waking him up early but decides against it by the time he has his shoes on. Prompto practically bleeds energy from some mysteriously deep source when he’s awake and Noctis doesn’t want to disturb him just yet. Instead, he scribbles a note on a scrap of paper and leaves it on the kitchen counter before slipping out of the apartment without a sound. He doesn’t need to check the note in his pocket for the Leville’s address. He’s run deliveries there often enough to know the way--and even if he hadn’t, he still wouldn’t need directions. He can walk the streets of Lestallum as easily as he can trace the bones of his hands.

It’s a bit of a trek without his bike. By the time he arrives, the light has gone full gold and the shadows cast in the streets are cool blue. The air outside is cooling slowly, so the lobby of the Leville is nearly chilly. A few of the hotel’s employees recognize him, but he waves them off. No work, not today. He makes for the stairs for the first time, instead, and doesn’t stop until he reaches the third floor.

There, he pauses in an out of the way corner, brushing up against the wide, pointed leaves of a potted plant, to take a few deep breaths. Briefly, he regrets his decision to leave Prompto behind. Prompto wouldn’t be any less anxious, but it’s still always easier to circumvent his own nerves if there’s someone else who needs him at his best.

Prompto doesn’t need to be with him at the moment to need that, though. One more breath. Two more. He needs to do this.

Room 306 is on his left, near the end of the hallway. It only takes a moment to find it, his footsteps muffled by thin carpeting. It takes him longer to knock, though, the seconds ticking by into minutes. The corridor is silent but for the faint echoes floating up from the ground floor. If there is any activity inside the room, he can’t hear it. That restless, irrational part of him wants to believe that there’s no one there at the moment, that they’ve gone to get dinner so that he can turn around and leave.

But Noctis doesn’t leave. He tightens his hair tie, straightens out his bangs and then raises a fist to knock on the door four times. His feet are rooted to the spot as soon as his knuckles make contact and they're going to be until he’s certain of which direction he’s going to be moving in. He waits and listens, searching for a voice, a footstep, anything.

There’s nothing until he just manages to catch a faint _oh, shit, Iggy._  Deep and gruff. Gladio. Plus the nickname means that Ignis is there, too. Right, then.

Before Noctis can give himself an incredibly belated pep talk, the door swings open, revealing Ignis on the other side, every bit as put together as he was the last time Noctis had seen him. His expression is carefully blank as he blinks down at Noctis. Noctis is pretty sure he makes an accurate mirror of it. He’s got this.

“Ignis,” he says in lieu of a greeting. “Is this a bad time?”

Ignis glances over his shoulder. From somewhere in the room, the scent of spices is faint. Maybe it’s the middle of dinner--except Ignis shakes his head and steps the side, freeing up the doorway. “Not at all,” he says with a welcoming gesture. “Come in. Please.”

Noctis steps inside and the door clicks shut softly behind him as he looks around. It’s a small room, but it’s still larger and all around nicer than any room a motel would ever give them. A proper kitchen space--currently occupied by dirty dishes in the sink--and large windows overlooking the fountain out front, all those good things.

Ignis leads him to a coffee table surrounded by a pair of chairs and a loveseat, next to which is Gladio, who, despite his size, is apparently doing his best to hover out of the way. On the way, they pass a desk that holds a fancy looking pen and that black folder that Ignis had been holding the last time they spoke.

“I take it Prompto isn’t joining us?” Ignis asks conversationally as Noctis considers the chairs before him.

“No,” Noctis replies, shaking his head. It would be easy to explain that Prompto is napping, that they’re legitimately preparing for next week by sleeping most of the day away, but he doesn’t do so. “I figured you already saw Prompto on his own, might as well make it even.”

He almost misses the quick look Ignis sends Gladio, somewhere between pointed and calculating, as he makes more the nearest chair. Once Noctis is seated, the other two follow suit on the loveseat, and then they simply listen to the whirring of the fans pushing cool air around the room for a short moment. One of the windows is open slightly, allowing a warm breeze to enter and mingle with the air conditioning. When he thinks they’ve ruminated on the temperature of the room for long enough, Noctis takes a breath to speak. He might as well start.

Ignis nabs his chance instead.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot last we spoke,” he says. “Might we start again?”

Noctis shakes his head quickly. “No, I--” he stops himself before he can toss out any more mixed signals. “I was under the weather, then, so I wasn’t really helping. So, I’m sorry about that. If you wanna start over, uh, go ahead, I guess.”

Vulnerable, on edge, and in pain, he definitely hadn’t put much effort into civility. This time, though, he feels steady, in control. His head is clear and he’s on a mission. Time to sit down for a friendly chat and get the information he needs.  

Ignis looks grateful, no matter the reasoning. He smooths out a few faint wrinkles in his sleeves and then presses the fingers of one hand over his heart. “My name is Ignis Scientia. My companion is Gladiolus Amicitia. As we told Prompto earlier, we are retainers to the royal family. We are here because King Regis asked us to find his son, who disappeared many years ago. He asked us to find you.”

King Regis. The man in the forest. The echo. Noctis almost braces for the pain that had been haunting him to come back, but there’s nothing. Just Ignis blinking once or twice as he waits to see if Noctis will react.

“He sent you here because I look like him,” Noctis clarifies. “And because we use the same magic.”

“That’s correct.” Ignis tilts his head slightly like he thinks getting a different angle of Noctis’ face will allow him to see some detail he hadn’t spotted before. “You really… never questioned where those abilities came from?”

Noctis sinks back into his chair a little and shrugs. “I mean, yeah, of course I did,” he replies, trying not to sound petulant. “But… Never really all that much. I mean, I guess I just assumed it was something that popped up every once and a while. Why does that sound dumb? To think that the world’s big enough for that?”

“The world _is_ larger than we know,” Ignis says, his voice smooth in its gentle understanding. Like he’s trying to let Noctis down carefully. “It’s just… not _that_ much larger.”

“You might run into a Glaive who can do similar things,” Gladio adds, “but you’ll never run into another hunter who can fight like you can. Definitely not another civilian. You’re one of a kind. That’s how we know who you are.”

How they _know_ him, spoken like they _do_ know him. These people who came out of nowhere, climbing out of a fancy car parked on the side of the road, sunlight glinting off its body, blurring the reflection of stairs.

No, wait. Of his bicycle. When they almost ran him over.

“The prince,” Noctis says, forcing himself back on track. “That’s why everyone thinks I’m the prince.”

“Everyone except you, apparently,” Gladio says offhandedly. Almost as soon as he finishes, he regards Noctis with a scrutinizing look. “Why is that? I mean--since we’re clearing the air and all--there’s shock and then there’s denial. What pushed you to denial?”

“Aside from the obvious?” Noctis asks dryly. “Like how I’ve lived my whole life here and don’t remember anything about being born a prince?”

“Got me there, I guess,” Gladio says, shrugging one shoulder. “Still got you on the magic thing, though.”

The magic thing. All that versus his memories--his home, his family. Versus being the kind of person that gets those people killed.

“I guess you do,” Noctis says, tipping his head back. “Listen, I’m just--the last time we spoke wasn’t exactly a good time. I was in the middle of a migraine and all around not really up for taking everything in.”

“I understand,” Ignis says quickly. He leans forward slightly. “We were concerned about you, by the way. According to Prompto, an incident like that had not occurred before, but you’re all right now, yes?”

Noctis nods even though he’s more or less convinced that he’d experienced something to do with excess magical stress, or something along those lines. The only other time he’d ever felt so much like roadkill before had been after last year’s festival and a couple times thereafter, although those were during nights he'd trained alone and hadn’t been so bad. He’d only just been figuring out where his limits lie.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m here now because I actually want to hear what you have to say this time. I need the whole story.”

Ignis settles back against the sofa and exchanges a quick look with Gladio, eyes hopeful, almost elated. But when he turns back to Noctis, something shuttered and furtive passes over his face. “Unfortunately, there is not much we can tell you,” he says carefully. “Sixteen years ago, a member of His Majesty’s inner circle betrayed our kingdom. Betrayed him. He allowed agents of Niflheim to infiltrate the Crown City and used the resulting chaos to flee the city with you and…  no one was there to stop him. The King searched tirelessly for years but never found any trace of you. Not until recently.”

“We never found the guy who took you, either. He was a Glaive--hell, he _led_ them--and he knew how they operated,” Gladio continues. His tone is even, an attempt at composure, but every word carries a rough note of the anger belying it. “But no one ever caught a trace of him again, not here, not in Niflheim. You were both gone with the wind until the Glaives picked up a rumour about a hunter in Duscae who could apparently use magic.”

Gladio’s expression softens as he looks toward Ignis again, who winds his fingers together over his knees and says, “It took some time to trace you. Weeks, even. You were apparently moving around quite a bit at the time.”

“Probably,” Noctis murmurs. “The beginning of spring is a pretty busy time for hunters.” That, and he and Prompto had wanted to save up for supply shopping. The weeks between the beginning of spring and the Festival of the Hunt are the easiest time to do so considering all the daemon activity.

“At any rate, you were finally spotted in Old Lestallum less than a month ago. After that, the King recognized you immediately and dispatched us, and we…” Ignis untangles his fingers and gestures loosely at Noctis. “We found you.”

There are a few seconds of silence as they allow Noctis to process, to take it all in. He hopes they aren’t expecting him to add much more to it in the meantime, even though he’d had the same hopes for them. The beginning of it all, to him, is a colouring book in a small living room while his mom asks his dad in the next room not to burn the apartment down whenever he’s going to cook anything other than a fish. Just a regular kid living his whole life in eastern Cleigne. How he got there is anyone’s guess now. Did his kidnapper just drop him off in a box on the side of the road or something? Leave him in a field for daemons?

To Ignis and Gladio, though, the beginning is the unfortunate story of a man betraying his own friend by stealing his son. Stealing Noctis. And then everyone wondering if he’s been alive or dead for more than fifteen years.

“You came on that hunt with Prompto and I to see it for yourselves, didn’t you?” Noctis asks, eyes flicking between the two sitting across from him. “You wanted to see if I could actually use magic--if I was actually who you thought I was.”

Gladio makes a vague motion with his hand. “Partly. We really did get tagged in by the hunters who were supposed to come to meet you--didn’t even know it was you we were coming down to meet--but the idea to hold off on talking to you about this until after was Ignis’ idea. He’s the one that’s running this show, honestly.”

“The night at the motel was your idea,” Ignis says lowly as he side-eyes Gladio, almost too quiet for Noctis to catch.

Noctis snorts. It slips out before he can catch it, as does his response. “Guess I know who to blame for that.”

It’s almost easy, the way the joke slips out, the way Noctis and Ignis get to watch Gladio sputter for half a second before yanking his cool back. For that same moment, it feels like they could go anywhere from there--like they aren’t sitting down to discuss, well, everything they’re really here for. Then, it passes as Ignis clears his throat.

“I proposed that we complete that hunt together because I had already come to the conclusion that you likely didn’t remember us,” he explains. “I thought it best that we establish some kind of rapport beforehand.”

“Why would I remember you?” Noctis asks. Ignis’ hands tighten immediately, his fingers wound together again. “I mean, I remember you almost running into me in a parking lot, sure, but I don’t think that’s what you meant. It has more to do with why the King apparently only sent two guys to find his long lost son, doesn’t it?”

Ignis makes like a statue for a few seconds, eyes blank behind his glasses, his body only moving when the cushions under him shift in response to Gladio’s movements. Gladio turns halfway toward the arm of the sofa and runs his hand over his mouth, then the collar of his jacket. An unpleasant feeling curls around Noctis’ ribs and he hears the ghost of Prompto’s voice in his ear-- _dude, tact?_

“Because we knew you before,” Gladio says after he straightens himself out again, shoulders pushed back against the sofa behind him. “Before you came to live out here--before you got taken--we knew each other. When Ignis said we’re royal retainers, he didn’t just mean in general. We’re--or we were--”

“We were all introduced as children,” Ignis interjects, his tone several times calmer than Gladio’s. At first, he speaks to the table in front of him, but he slowly lifts his gaze toward Noctis. “We were friends. Had things been different, though, I was meant to assist you in a variety of tasks while Gladio was to protect you, essentially.”

“You knew me before,” Noctis says quietly. Spoken like they _used_ to know him. They’re royal retainers--to him. That’s why they’re here alone? Because he should remember them? Because they should have the best shot at--at what?

The answer is pretty obvious to Noctis, even if few other things are. If he’s really a prince, these two don’t look like the kind of people who are just going to drop in for a spell and then leave him be again. Prompto is also already unsure about where they’re going to wind up in the future. Neither Ignis nor Gladio has said it straight up yet, but Noctis knows that they want him to go to Insomnia--where he’s “supposed” to be, had things been different.

He tries to imagine it. Not the great wall surrounding it--he’s seen plenty of pictures of that; what is the Crown City without its wall, after all--but the life within it. The buildings. The people. Him, with Ignis and Gladio. But everything comes to him like the static stricken images of a motel television. He doesn’t know what that place is actually like.

He thinks it’s sunny, but in a different way than Lestallum, where it’s hot while the tight streets choke out the sun’s rays. No, Insomnia must be more open than that. He thinks there might be a lot of stairs.

Will it be sunny?

No one breaks the silence until Noctis speaks again, until the prolonged emptiness around them practically commands him to ask, “So, what, then?” He tries for something light, something that isn't demanding an answer so much as nudging Ignis or Gladio to continue, but his tone comes out just shy of disrespectful and Noctis hastens to correct himself. “I mean--here I am; you found me. What’s your plan now?”

Ignis blinks a few times, looking very much like he’d like something to do with his hands. He glances toward the desk, the tidy folder sitting atop it, but settles in the end for plucking his glasses off his nose and taking a few seconds to wipe the lenses off. “Ideally,” he says before he puts his glasses back on and looks Noctis in the eye, “we escort you back to Insomnia.”

Nail, hammer.

“Preferably soon,” Gladio says. “Things are precarious with the Nifs right now. We’re still at war while they’re figuring out the logistics of sending a delegation to Lucis, so if word gets out that you’re alive and kicking before we can make sure you’re safe, that’s gonna spell trouble.”

Noctis’ first instinct is to grit his teeth, hackles raised. He pays rent by slaying all manner of beasts, _daemons_ included. He’s more than capable of protecting himself. The thought of hunting, however, is what douses the fire in his chest quickly--because when he hunts he has Prompto at his back. He’s a capable fighter when he has somebody else to fight with and count on.

But the future is a foggy, unstable thing, made even more so by the muddled confusion of the past few days. Noctis only wants a few things from it, but he could be dealt a bad hand just as easily as he could come up with a good one. What if he loses himself again?

What if he makes another mistake?

He can’t.

Noctis rolls his shoulders back and asks Ignis, “If I go to Insomnia, will I be able to learn more about my magic?”

Ignis gives him a curious look, as if startled by the sudden strictness of Noctis’ tone if not the question itself. “Undoubtedly, yes. Is that one of your concerns?”

Noctis nods. “The last time we spoke, you implied that you’ve worked with other people who could use magic--that there’s an actual _place_ that it was learned.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Members of the Kingsglaive typically receive instruction on how to utilize their new abilities, while members of the royal family tend to… learn from their forefathers.”

Ignis sits back to let the explanation sink in, but Noctis doesn’t quite let it. He presses forward. “But either way it happens, I’d still learn how to do it right. That’s what you’re saying, right?”

That gives Ignis pause. He leans forward again, his brow furrowed slightly. “ _That_ would imply that you haven’t already done so. I must admit, that didn’t seem to be the case when we fought together.”

Noctis very nearly laughs, but he manages to swallow it down, to hold it down by the fingernails pressed into his palms. The day they’d fought together, he’d spent almost the entire hunt in pain, just trying his best to maintain focus while his head worked against him. Blinking is practically muscle memory, but the fire had very nearly been a big mistake. And yet, Ignis had not noticed anything out of the ordinary.

“Yeah, well,” Noctis says after gathering his scattered thoughts again. “We lucked out with that hunt. It could have gone a lot worse. I still only learned how to do all that on my own, no teacher. I’m still figuring out how to control it, and sometimes I mess up. And if I mess up bad enough…”

Ignis makes a sympathetic noise, likely with the memory of almost getting scorched himself. “I see. Then, to answer your question, yes. If that is what you want, then we would see to it that you receive legitimate training.”

Noctis takes a deep breath and lets it out again slowly through slightly parted lips. He has no idea what “legitimate training” would actually entail, but even just the words themselves are a relief. A controlled place to learn how to harness the power in his bones, to make use of it without hoping in the back of his mind that he gets it right--never has the idea of attending a _class_ brought him so much comfort.

But if he goes, and Ignis is true to his word, then maybe he can finally figure something out. He can learn real control and he doesn’t have to worry about a catastrophic loss of it.

“Okay,” he says softly, letting his hands fall loose in his lap. “That’s what I really wanted to know.”

Gladio frowns slightly. “You mean, that’s what you really came here for?” At Noctis’ nod, his expression tightens further. “But everything we just told you--you’re just not going to touch any of that?”

Nope. Not right now, at any rate. Noctis knows he's going to have to eventually, but he continues to deliberately hold it all at bay. Everything from their plausible reasons to believe he’s a missing prince to them apparently having known him before being adopted--he doesn’t want to touch any of it, even though he can feel the inevitability of it pressing in on him.

Because to get what he wants, all the strings have to attach somewhere. He can already feel some of them slipping out of his reach, threaded and woven by someone else’s hand.

To get what he wants is to dig at the roots already buried deep in the streets of Lestallum with his own hands, the sprawling maze and the warmth of the people surrounding him. The cobblestone alleys and the well-worn roads baking under the hot sun and the vendors’ grills. The apartment. Home.

“Listen,” he says apologetically. Genuinely, candidly. “I need time to think about this.”

“I didn’t think you wouldn’t,” Gladio replies, his voice an odd mix of gentle and--not. “But the question is how _much_ time?”

How is he supposed to answer that easily? To give a definite answer to something like this--to being told that he isn’t supposed to be here? Noctis can’t even imagine it. There’s not exactly a reference guide for this sort of thing. If he were still a kid, there’d probably be some kind of procedure for this type of thing. For his birth family to come looking for him and wind up having to go through his adoptive family.

Except that’s not happening. Or, it _did_ \--Gladio tracked down Prompto and Prompto promised in turn that he’ll be with Noctis through thick and thin. Now, everything is up to him.

“If I go with you, do I get to come back?” Noctis asks solemnly. “If I go with you, what happens after? What happens to Prompto?”

Gladio opens his mouth, but his breath carries no sound. He closes it again, and his shoulders fall slightly. The hard edge melts away as he shakes his head. “I can’t answer that right now.”

“I thought so,” Noctis says calmly. He gestures to the room around them, unfamiliar as it is to him, and the window where the last of the late evening sunlight still drifts through. He can just hear the fountain outside, the faint tune of a band nearby, of the people moving past. “I’m not just disregarding everything else you guys said--but this is my  _home_. This is where I’ve lived pretty much my whole life. I need time. You get that, right?”

“We do,” Ignis replies, his tone heavy with its compassion. “We did not think this would necessarily be easy. There’s no simple way to resolve something like this, after all, so we cannot begrudge you the time you need to contemplate it.”

“Thanks,” Noctis says, grateful that they’re going to let him slip away this time. He stands slowly. “Then, unless there’s anything else you want to tell me, I’m gonna get going before Prompto starts getting worried.”

Ignis opens his mouth to respond, maybe even ask a question judging by the expression that flickers across his face, something uncertain, almost apprehensive. He shuts his mouth almost immediately, though, his features smoothing out again before he also rises to his feet, almost hasty to guide Noctis back to the door.

Gladio follows at a more sedated pace. “Go on home,” he says amiably. “We’re not going anywhere fast.”

Ignis gives Noctis a faint smile. “We’ll be here for a few days yet, as long as our funds last. When you feel that you’re able to continue…”

“I’ll come back,” Noctis agrees. “When I’m ready.”

“Of course.” Ignis opens the door to the quiet hallway beyond and steps aside.

“Have a good night,” Noctis says a little awkwardly as he passes by Ignis.

“Goodnight, Noctis,” Ignis says. There’s a slight pause before the final syllable, as if he’d only decided to add it as an afterthought. Noctis pretends to have missed it, to let it fall away like a crack in the voice of someone with a dry throat, until he gets halfway through the door, one foot still in the room. Ignis responds to his delay immediately. “Noctis?”

Noctis almost shakes his head, almost tells them a bad lie about forgetting which way the stairs are because he’s only been in this place this one time. But he doesn’t.

To get what he wants, he needs to pull some of the strings himself.

“Listen,” he says, turning back toward Ignis, toward Gladio. “Prompto and I are going to be in Old Lestallum in a few days. How about instead of waiting here, you meet us down there?”

Ignis and Gladio exchange looks of quiet surprise, and the initial silence that passes between them gives Noctis some mild satisfaction.

“The Festival of the Hunt begins in a few days, does it not?” Ignis asks carefully.

“Yep,” Noctis replies with a pop of his lips. “My name’s already in the book, and if there’s a tradition that I want to stick with, then I stick with it. So, I’m gonna be there no matter what.”

Another silent conversation passes between Ignis and Gladio, one that carries an atmosphere so hopeful it’s almost painful to watch. In the end, Gladio shrugs and Ignis turns to Noctis with a nod.

“We’ll go to Old Lestallum, then,” he says, “and speak with you again there.”

“Great,” Noctis says, giving them a thumbs up as he finally backs into the hallway. “Hope you guys like all-nighters, then. Nothing says bad luck like not establishing a backwards sleep schedule until the third night. See you then.”

“Until next time, Noctis,” Ignis says softly before the door clicks shut, leaving Noctis alone again in the corridor, the silence broken only by a shaky breath as Noctis turns toward the stairs.

He goes home, back along the familiar streets as the sky darkens to deep, deep blue, the streets lit orange. For the entire walk, his legs feel too light, tethered to the ground only by the weight low in his ribs. The whole conversation echoes in his head, not a single detail allowing itself to be smothered by some other train of thought, like they all know that he won’t be sleeping it off for some time yet.

Some thoughts dangle into nothing but a void, a roadblock he created by driving the conversation elsewhere. He leaves them like that, too. He’s not about to run back up there and tell Ignis or Gladio that he doesn’t actually want to see them in Old Lestallum after all.

He built that bridge. They’ll cross it when they get to it.

Prompto isn’t home when Noctis finally returns. Silence greets him instead along with a line of sharp writing crammed underneath Noctis’ note on the counter. _Gone to get food._

Noctis isn’t alone for long, though. Prompto shoulders his way through the front door with a bag of groceries and a bag of takeout containers clutched in one hand, and his phone in the other. When he spots Noctis waiting at the other end of the hall, his eyes brighten and he shoves his phone into his back pocket.

“Hey, you’re back,” he says cheerfully as he crosses the distance between them. “I was about to call you and see how you were doing. How--how did it go?”

Noctis lifts the takeout bag away from Prompto’s fingers and smiles. He can smell the curry inside and it fills him with warmth and a sense of longing, a desire to see these nights never change.

“It went fine,” he replies honestly. “I just have a lot to think about.”

Prompto looks closely at him. “Do you wanna lie down?”

Noctis shakes his head quickly. “No. Gotta stay up for a bit, remember?” He reaches out and takes Prompto’s arm, leading him into the kitchen. “Let’s get the food sorted out and watch a movie or something.”

“Let’s do it, then. I’ll get my laptop. Any preferences?”

“Nah, you can pick first.” As long as Prompto doesn’t attempt to put them to sleep with a chocobo documentary, Noctis doesn’t particularly care what goes on the screen as long as they can get comfortable with their curry and their phones.

They wind up on the couch in the living room, a blanket tossed over their legs while an action movie plays on Prompto’s laptop. They barely pay attention to it between their late dinner and playing King’s Knight on their phones. When the curry is finished, Noctis leans against Prompto’s side, his chin tucked against the crook of Prompto’s neck. Between the temperature of the apartment, the blanket, and the warm food, he’s almost too hot, but he doesn’t want to move. His muscles are relaxed, bones heavy, and Prompto is a solid, comfortable weight beside him, occasionally shifting to press his lips against Noctis’ hairline. A constant, night after night. One that Noctis has yet to lose for himself.

And this. This is what he wants.  

It’s very early in the morning by the time they fall asleep. They’ve moved from the couch to their bed and another movie is playing on Prompto’s laptop on their dresser, but between one shot and the next Noctis thinks that the movie is going to put him to sleep at four in the morning--the movie, the warmth, Prompto’s sighs against his lips--and then it does.

 

\--

 

In the dream, he is alone in the forest again, surrounded by countless trees that are as wide as a small building, and much taller than one, too. Sunlight filters through the canopy not unlike the way it does in Lestallum’s busiest paths. He climbs over and under roots thicker than his own body, following a well-worn path toward a light peeking between the trees, almost indistinguishable from the sunlight.

He follows the light for what feels like hours, pausing every so often to make sure he isn’t following a sun-dappled rock instead, and to listen for the faint echo of his name.

The forest grows dim, a low hanging mist obscuring his path, and only then does he come across a giant, empty pedestal made of ancient, cracked marble. There is an old man sitting atop it, a cane held loosely in his hands. He looks weary at first, as if he could fall asleep upon the pedestal and become the statue meant to be there, forever obscuring the plaque on its side with his legs, but as Noctis approaches, he looks nothing short of glad--warm and sincere and peaceful.

“We have little time,” the King says. Only the faintest echo lingers in the air even though his voice sounds like it should command more. Instead, it remains gentle. He brushes his hand over the stone next to him. “Will you sit with me?”

Noctis crosses the clearing and pauses before the pedestal, the base of it smothered with crawling vines and fallen leaves. Even this close, he cannot read the inscription on the plaque. He needs to climb past it to make it to the edge that the King sits upon, hoisting himself up with rapidly tiring arms. By the time he gets seated, settling less than a foot away from the King, he feels utterly drained.

The forest grows darker, the light of the sun lost again in the mist. The King places a large, warm hand on Noctis’ back, but Noctis is so tired now that he barely feels it.

“Walk tall,” says the echo in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got through one chapter full of important conversations only to be greeted with this chapter, which was one of the most important so far, and whew! There were several threads to keep track of, a road that needed to be taken no matter how tempting the detours looked. Noctis getting proactive in his life that's about to get messy? In my fic? It's more likely than you think. Now that I've got all but a few threads ready to tie together, we're almost to where things start getting really fun :)c
> 
> This fic has hit a lot of milestones with these last couple chapters, too--we've got more than 50k words here now and 100 pages on the google doc, among all the wonderful comments and kudos :0 Thank you so much for all the encouragement you've given me and this fic! The more complicated things get the more I'm confident that they can be handled well :D


	10. new things, better things

Prompto only gets in on about half the fishing trip. On the first day--what was supposed to be the third day of their original plan--the skies over most of Cleigne are clear and cool, and the fishing spot that Noctis likes to frequent near Rachsia bridge is peaceful. It’s quiet, even under the surface of the river where Noctis had hoped there would be a lot of fish, but they don’t mind. Not when they can just sit back and relax with the only pressing issue being whether or not Noctis is going to snap a line or not.

On the second day, though, they wake up and crawl out of the tent pitched on the haven closest to the bridge and find the sky hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. Prompto doesn’t even need to leave the tent to know it, in fact. He shifts his right leg once when he wakes up and a dull ache greets him. It doesn’t rain a single drop, but he still spends more of the day at camp with a couple of passing hunters than with Noctis at the river.

On the last day, it rains from sunup to sundown. Noctis still dons a poncho with a cackle and plants himself by the river again, but Prompto spends most of his time lounging in the car parked nearby, listening to music while cleaning his pistol and rubbing his knee as low thunder rolls across the distant sky, never quite passing over them.

It doesn’t take a whole day to clean a gun, though, even if he is being more careful because he’s doing it in the backseat of the car. It’s time for a late lunch when he finishes, which means it’s time to make some sandwiches. They’ve only got food for the next few days--beyond that, Meldacio’s ready to supply hunters with most of what they need in the coming week--and since it’s raining and Prompto can only do so much in the car, that means simple, easy meals. Which is fine. He just has to shoot a message to Noctis and tell him to come back to the car if he wants to eat.

It’ll still be a bit. Noctis isn’t going to see the text for at least a few minutes, and then it’ll be a hat toss on whether he wants to keep fishing or eat. So, Prompto doesn’t start on anything just yet. He’s got time to check in on King’s Knight before he has to duck out into the rain to get the cooler out of the trunk.

Which is what he means to do before he gets distracted, true to form.

Peeking out from the pocket behind the driver’s seat are the corners of several photographs that Prompto slid there on a whim, not even looking at where they’d gone nine times out of ten. Any place that keeps them from flying away with the wind while Noctis drives over the speed limit is a place for safe keeping, after all. Prompto stares idly at the sharp paper corners around the side of his phone for a moment before stretching out across the seats and reaching for one.

The corner is dark, spattered with a few blurry flecks of white. Prompto has no idea what it could be until he draws it out and finds a chocobo staring back at him from the middle of the picture. It stands in a field of tiny flowers and the sky behind it is orange, and its feathers seem to steal all the light, leaving little for the rest of the photograph. Its tail feathers are spread out behind its tilted head, haloing it as it stares at the camera, at Prompto.

Prompto smiles. He doesn’t really remember the day he took this, but the chocobo looks so bright and soft and cute all around that he can’t help the fuzzy feeling that immediately sets up shop in his chest. Chocobos are always so good for his camera. He lets the picture rest on the empty seat next to him and reaches for another, a speck of the palest blue.

A sunset in Duscae rests in his hand, taken just as the sun was easing down behind the distant mountains. The sun is indistinguishable in the colour surrounding it, the pale yellow and white, but its light spreads like a line of fire along the mountains, glows across the Duscaen arches on the right side and burns gold through the trees opposite. That’s why he’d taken it, he remembers--he’d taken this the same day as the chocobo, too. The air near Alstor Slough had been cooling quickly, but the light had been gorgeous, otherworldly.

Prompto has seen dozens of sunsets like this--hunting as a way of making a living has a way of providing such things--but he’d chosen to save this one. Probably because of the chocobo. Did he save anymore? He reaches into the pocket again, but this time he pushes all the pictures together so that he can take the whole lot.

On top is a landscape so blue it’s almost overpowering. The sky washes over the mountains to the river winding through the lower half of the picture and turns the countless deep green trees to turquoise. It’s the Maidenwater, he’s pretty sure. He’s only visited the one time--hunters are told to keep their distance from Malmalam and so they tend to steer clear of the river as well, but Noctis had caught wind of a nice fishing spot and so they’d gone and camped for the night, leaving the following morning. It had been cool there, too. Ravatogh is right next door, but the ocean is, too.

It had been peaceful, the wilderness lively in the lack of hunters. They should go again, sometime.

He flips to the next picture quickly, though--he’d used the wrong filter, it’s way too blue now that he’s looked at it again--and is greeted with Noctis sitting on a bench next to a plastic Kenny Crow, bundled loosely in a jacket. Kenny Crow has his wing around Noctis’ shoulder, but Noctis is leaning away, ignoring everything except the cup of coffee that he’s tipping almost straight up to drink from. The lighting is faint, coming mostly from the lamps of the parking lot--an early morning shot?--and so Noctis’ exposed neck and collar bone, where the chain holding his dog tags rests, is the brightest part of the whole picture, an unintentional focal point.

Prompto’s almost certain he took the shot because the dead and soulless eyes of the plastic Kenny Crow make it look like Noctis is taunting it with the fact that he can drink coffee to save himself and Kenny Crow can’t. Probably.

Underneath it is another chocobo, but it’s a much different picture than the other. The chocobo doesn’t have a saddle and it isn’t looking nicely at the camera. Instead, it’s rearing up, head held back, beak open, wings outstretched, and less than five feet away from its front is Noctis. He isn’t looking at the camera, either. He’s leaning away from the chocobo, almost cowering, and a bright green leaf is grasped tight in his hand like a shield. His face is hidden from the chocobo by the gysahl green and the rim of his cap, but it’s perfectly visible from Prompto’s point of view.

Prompto bites back a laugh at the expression of alarm and dismay on Noctis’ face. The man has a way with cats, but birds? Giant, fluffy, beautiful birds? It’s hit and miss sometimes. A lot of times.

It hasn’t stopped him from bringing Prompto to the chocobo ranch for his birthday, though. Not yet. They’ve gone the last three years in a row. The first time had been a complete surprise; Noctis’ parents had driven them all across Duscae and Prompto spent the entire time thinking he’d gotten invited on another family camping trip--right up until they were surrounded by _baby chocobos_ , and Noctis was telling him to buy as much feed as he wanted because he’d been saving chunks of his allowance for _months_ , and--

\--will they even get to go this year?

Prompto’s chest tightens despite his best efforts. The picture in his hands is only a few months old. There are more like it, but he cropped them and put them in a photo album. Where are they going to be this year at the same time this one was taken, though? Do princes get time for a getaway vacation with chocobos?

The driver’s door flies open and Prompto nearly launches the pictures in his hands over his head in his surprise. His train of thought is completely derailed, too, as Noctis throws himself into the front seat and slams the door shut behind him. His poncho is dripping and at some point, his hood must have fallen down because his cap and his hair beneath it are both soaked. He’s grinning, though, as he turns around in his seat and hooks his arm around the back.

“You would not believe the whopper I almost had out there, Prompto,” he gasps. Water droplets land on Prompto’s face and arms as Noctis pulls his hat off and flicks his waterlogged bangs away from his eyes.

“ _Almost_ had?” Prompto repeats, unconvinced. “Pics or it didn’t happen.”

“I  _almost_ had it,” Noctis says, clenching his hands next to his head. “But my line snapped.”

Prompto pats the driest looking curve of Noctis’ shoulder. That explains why he’d gotten here so fast. Prompto hadn’t thought he’d lost track of _that_ much time. “Ouch. Tough luck, buddy.”

“Yeah,” Noctis sighs. “It was huge, I’m telling you. But I know when to quit, so--”

Prompto can’t help cutting in. “Do you?”

Noctis gives him a dirty look, but it cracks quickly. “Yeah, totally. ‘Cause I’m hungry. Did you make sandwiches?”

Oh. Right. The cooler. Prompto had meant to grab it so that Noctis wouldn’t go full survivalist on him and start hauling fish back. Maybe he _had_ lost track of a lot of time.

“Oh, shit, I forgot,” Prompto says hastily as he collects the pictures slowly spreading across the back seat into one messy pile again. They slide off of each other as soon as he lets go of them, but none of them wind up on the floor, so he leaves them alone as he scoots over to open the back passenger side door. “Hang on, I’ll get the cooler.”

“Now you’re on the hook,” Noctis says, looking all casual even though he’s probably been waiting for ages to whip that line out.

“Shush, you,” Prompto says over his shoulder before he darts out of the car and circles around to the trunk. He doesn’t have a poncho on, but his jacket keeps the steady rain off his back as he makes quick work of pulling their small cooler out of the trunk and easing it into the car again.

The pictures are gone when he gets back in, taking the middle seat with the cooler at his side. He only notices after he’s got the lid off and is about to put a packet of sliced cheese down on top of the pile on his other side--only to find that they aren’t there anymore.

“Huh?” he says, dropping the cheese back into the cooler and blinking at the empty seat. Hadn’t he put them right there?

“Man,” Noctis says from the front seat. He’s sitting properly now, looking down at his lap. “Some of these have been in here a while. When’d you take this one?”

The picture he holds up for Prompto to see has a soft fold down the center from being left at an odd angle in the seat pocket for so long. It’s of them and little else, their faces taking up all but a half circle of space around Noctis’ head that is instead occupied by the blurred branches of a tree.

It’s them, smiling at the camera. Prompto’s sunny grin is closer, and his cheeks are smudged with dirt. His hair isn’t styled with gel, but it’s still messy enough to look like he’d made the attempt. Noctis’ face is just behind and to the side, close but not quite touching. He’s leaning into the frame, almost crossed-eyed as he smiles faintly. There’s a streak of dust across his nose and a few small leaves are caught in his hair, which is only just long enough to tie up.

When’s the last time Noctis got a haircut? Two years ago? More than that? Which means that the picture must be almost that old, too; only a few months more recent. And _that_ means--

“Ramuh’s beard, Noct,” Prompto says, snatching the picture. He slides it back into the pocket, making sure it goes in flat. He’d taken the picture after one of their first hunts on their own, not far from Lestallum, and while the album at home has the better pictures from that day, the ones where they don't look like they rolled through the underbrush, this one doesn’t deserve to be all bent up. “Put our baby faces away--I think this one’s been in here as long as we’ve had this car!” 

Noctis snorts. “ _Baby faces_ \--you’ve still got one of those. Look at this one, though. This is when we went to Meldacio last year, right?”

Another picture held over his shoulder. It’s just him, a tilted smile on his lips as he stands with his hands behind his back next to a crate of giant dualhorn tusks. There are other such spoils of the hunt behind him; claws and pelts and bones brought to Meldacio HQ so that they can be turned into something else, like the bone knife that Noctis has stashed away somewhere.

They’ve only been up to Meldacio a few times since then. They don’t usually need to go all the way up that way, but they’d come across a set of dog tags during a hunt and decided to deliver them since they couldn’t find Dave in the field at the time.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Prompto says softly as he takes the picture. It has an uneven fold near its lower left corner, but the rest of it is smooth and clean. He leaves it on the seat next to him instead of dropping it back into the pocket it came from. It’s a moment he’d forgotten about, but it might be nice to put in the album. “First trip up to HQ all by ourselves.”

Noctis hums. Prompto hears him shuffle through the pictures for a few seconds before he groans, “ _This_ one. Astrals.”

“What one?” Prompto asks, leaning forward. Probably an embarrassing one if Noctis is complaining about it.

It’s a picture taken in the early morning, which Prompto knows off the bat because he remembers it dearly. Noctis is posed just off the center of the frame, hand over his hip, another near his face, hiding all but a narrow eye from the camera--and looming behind him, taking up more than half of the background, is a catoblepas, one of Alstor Slough’s largest and most dangerous residents.

“What do you mean by _‘this one?_ ’” Prompto asks, laughing. “That was a great shot! Look at you, all cool.”

“Yeah, right before I almost got _crushed_ by a catoblepas,” Noctis says, shaking his head. His lips look like they don’t know whether to curve up or down and so they settle for a weird half and half situation. “Waking up at the crack of dawn to forage? Forgivable. Near death experiences? You’re fucking lucky I love you.”

Noctis tosses the picture back as he talks, the paper twirling before it pokes slaps Prompto’s shoulder and lands on the seat.

“Hey, we had a lot of fun,” Prompto reminds him as he slides the picture back into the pocket as well. He still remembers the wind in his hair as they’d run away full tilt. There had been some fear, but they’re both fast runners and Noctis had only needed to blink away once. Everything else had been _exhilarating_ \--but maybe that’s the memory of adrenaline talking.

“I can think of other times that were more fun,” Noctis says, indifferent to Prompto’s insisting tone. Prompto leans against the back of his seat as he flips through more of the pictures in his hands.

Them near the Disc of Cauthess, the meteor glimmering behind them. A selfie in Lestallum. Noctis driving, his legs bent up so he can hold the steering wheel steady with his knees while his hands are busy tying up his hair, a maneuver he pulls off often. Prompto sitting on a plastic chair, his face wearing an intent expression, angled down toward his dog tags in his hand as he cleans them off with a cloth.

“What?” Prompto blinks and Noctis pauses before shuffling to another picture. “Where did this come from?”

He definitely hadn’t taken it. He’s not even paying attention to the camera. He doesn’t remember printing it, either. But he’s the only one in the shot and his hands are busy. The only sign as to where he was at the time is the gravel in the background that holds the dim blue of faint evening light while his hair glows orange under a street lamp.

“Oh, yeah,” Noctis says mildly, as if he’d forgotten, too. “I took this one. We got covered in mud and… flan stuff in the Nebulawood that one time, remember?”

Prompto does, faintly, but mostly because he hates getting covered in goo, which is an inevitability when confronting flans. “But when did I print this?”

Noctis snorts. “I know how to use your photo printer, Prompto. I like this picture, though. You were all serious about keeping our tags clean.”

He takes it out of the pile but doesn’t pass it back to Prompto. Instead, he leans forward to leave it on the dashboard. When he sits back and looks at the next picture, he stays quiet.

It’s another that Prompto recognizes on sight--and it’s another that he actually has multiples of. A copy saved on his laptop, a copy made for the album, and a copy stashed away here. There’s probably another floating around somewhere--he likes to print copies with different filters when he has the extra paper for it, just to see which looks best.

In the picture, they stand in the afternoon light of their bedroom window, each with an arm around the other’s shoulders. Noctis’ smile is soft, his eyes nothing short of smug and pleased, while Prompto is red in the face but grinning. The room behind them is completely empty. There’s nothing in it--no furniture, no frames on the wall--because they’ve only just seen the place for the first time.

In the memory, Prompto has only just learned that the apartment only has one bedroom. He’s only just been stopped in the middle of babbling about how they might fit two beds into the room, or how they can just go with one because they’re more than used to sharing a bed after all their sleepovers. He’s about to continue on a gut-wrenching track to tell Noctis that it’s okay if he’s changed his mind and actually wants a place only for himself--

\--except then Noctis closes his eyes for a couple seconds, laughing quietly under his breath, and then pulls him in close. He whispers out of earshot of the manager lingering in the hallway, “You know I’m in love with you, right?”

And Prompto stops dead then and there because he _hadn’t_ known. He hadn’t dared to think it because he’s already grateful enough that Noctis wants to be his friend in the first place, let alone be even closer. So, for Noctis to say he’s _in love_ with him?

“Six,” Noctis breathes, leaning back a little from the embrace to look at Prompto’s flushed cheeks. “You _didn’t_ know. I was trying to be subtle about it, but I didn’t think I was _that_ subtle.”

He’s serious. Holy shit. Prompto pulls a grin together. “Aw,” he says, voice cracking slightly. “I love you too, buddy.”

Noctis’ arm falls away as he averts his eyes, and now his cheeks are pink, too. “I’m--I made it weird. I’m sorry--you don’t have to--”

“No, it’s fine,” Prompto says quickly. “It’s not weird. It’s--I didn’t think--” Prompto cuts himself off and looks around the room again. It’s the perfect size for one bed and the barely controlled mess that will surely accompany it. “Is this like your last resort or something?”

“Uh, yeah, kinda,” Noctis says shyly, a small smiling gracing his lips again. “You still weren’t getting it, but… I wanna move in with you. Like, _together_.”

Prompto wheezes and ducks his head against Noctis’ shoulder. There had been _signs_ \--his favourites made for dinner; small, random gifts; outings that led to food that Noctis would foot most of the bill for--and he’s only just getting it now, in the bedroom of a one bed, one bath apartment. He’s so _dense_.

“Let’s do it,” Prompto says as soon as he lifts his head again. His heart’s beating a mile a minute and he can barely stand still, but he doesn’t want to lose this opportunity, not after Noctis literally led him into it. “Let’s get the place. Let’s get it and move in and--”

He licks his lips, glances down from Noctis’ eyes even though he tries not to. Would it be weird to kiss Noctis? Noctis _started_ it, but still.

“Really?” Noctis asks. The blush is mostly gone from his cheeks, replaced by a faraway look. “You’d be okay with it?”

Prompto goes for it. He leans in and closes his eyes and kind of misses the mark a little, but the sentiment is there, tentative on the corner of Noctis’ mouth. Noctis sucks in a breath and then bumps their noses together as he tilts his head and kisses back harder--and it’s not weird. Prompto’s kissing his best friend--his best friend is in love with him, wants to be _more_ , and it feels _great_.

They part, breathless. How long are kisses supposed to last? Is he supposed to be breathless or is Prompto just losing his mind?

Noctis’ arm is around his back again, hand heavy on his shoulder. Prompto reaches across and tugs him closer, fumbling in his pocket with his other hand for the shape of his camera. He can still feel his face burning and Noctis looks like the cat who caught the canary, but Prompto needs to save this moment, this beginning of something new, better, all their own. He _needs_ to.

In the present, in their car as the rain rattles on the roof and pours down the windows, Noctis asks quietly, haltingly, “So, you know I love you, and--I just want things to be good, right?”

Prompto’s head jerks up away from the picture. Noctis has turned in his seat and he keeps turning, elbows resting on the back of the seat, the pictures still tight in his hands, so that he can face Prompto properly, equal parts sober and earnest. Prompto can only think of one reason why--or two, actually, but they’re both kind of tied up together now, aren’t they?

“Yeah, Noct,” he says, nodding. He hazards a smile. “I think we’ve been over this.”

Noctis laughs a little, the sound faint on his breath. “I know. Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

“Is this about the other day?”

The other day being the thing that Noctis hasn’t brought up since then. Prompto can’t help but be concerned because Noctis isn’t exactly a talkative individual, but he’s hardly ever so quiet. What did he learn that day? What did Ignis and Gladio tell him?

“Yeah,” Noctis answers. He takes a deep breath and explains, “Ignis told me that there’d be a chance for me to learn more about my magic if I went to Insomnia. And before you say anything--I know. I know you aren’t afraid of it. I believe you. But I…” he pauses and looks down at the pictures again, and Prompto knows he’s looking back and forth between their faces.

“Recently, I feel like I’ve started losing control of it. I keep thinking about the headaches, and how you said I was trying to blink _in my sleep_ in the car, and how even when I _am_ in control, I can still do a lot of damage. And that’s--that’s not even all of it. I don’t want it to get any worse, though. I won’t let it.”

“So you want to go to Insomnia,” Prompto finishes. The decision doesn’t shock him, or worry him. He’d expected it, really, even if it isn’t for the reason he’d thought. He knows Noctis is still concerned about his magic, but what more is making him so afraid?

“I do,” Noctis says. He gestures loosely over his chest. “If only so I can figure out what all this is about. The thing is, though… I don’t know what’s gonna happen after.”

“After?”

“After I go. I don’t know how long it’ll take, or how long I’m gonna be there. It might be a long time before I can come back, if I can.”

“You’d be able to come home again if you don’t want to stay, wouldn’t you?” Prompto asks quickly. “They can’t just _keep_ you there against your will.”

“I don’t know,” Noctis says again. “Maybe I should have asked, but I told them I’d talk to them again before the festival started, so I’m not gonna worry about that right now. Right _now_ , I just--you’re right. This is our home. This is our life out here. And something might be waiting for me out there, but....”

Something twists in Prompto’s chest. Noctis’ seriousness, his uncertainty, his white knuckle grip on the pictures in his hand--all needles in Prompto’s skin. “What are you saying?”

Noctis sighs, looking at their memory again. “This is all we know. Leaving it might mean leaving a lot of it behind.”

But not Prompto, right? Prompto wants to ask, but the words won’t come. They’re too heavy, trapping his breath in his throat. He’s glad Noctis isn’t looking at him for once because that means he can’t see the apprehension on his face, the dread.  _Not me, right?_

Noctis keeps going, rambling now as the words fall from his lips. “And I know what you said before. I know you said you’d stand by me, but this is a lot. It might stay that way, too, but I still…” he finally looks up again, and between his wet bangs plastered to his forehead and his unwavering gaze on Prompto, he looks almost desperately hopeful. “I want you to come with me to the Crown City, to see this through. I want you to be there with me, but if that means we can’t come home for a really long time, then maybe it would be better if--”

“I’ll do it,” Prompto interjects, the words practically bursting from the back of his throat, grinding in a way his heart very nearly did. “I told you, didn’t I? You _just_ said--”

“Yeah, when everything was a _story_ we told ourselves,” Noctis says painfully. “Or when the danger wasn’t real. But this is different.”

Prompto shakes his head and squares his shoulders. “It isn’t, Noct. What were you going to suggest I do? Stay home the whole time? Hold down the fort while you’re gone?”

“Why do you say that like its a bad thing?” Noctis asks, frowning.

“Because it would suck!” Prompto exclaims, hands fisted against his knees to stop them from shaking. Part of him is glad that Noctis is just trying to figure out the best way to keep them both happy, to make sure they’re okay when the clouds have passed, but the rest of him is fighting off the looming, suffocating sense of loneliness in his future. “Me just sitting alone at home for however long it would take to see you again. Sure, I could call you, but that’s nothing compared to _being with_ you. It’s--yeah, the apartment’s home, but us living in it isn’t all that makes it home, you know? Without you… a place to live is all it would be.”

It would be almost like Noctis’ old apartment all over again. His old home, where he shared countless sleepovers with Prompto, where his parents worked longer as he grew older but still left an aura of warmth and care that could smooth over and hardship. After his parents died, though, that aura went with them. Prompto had moved in properly in an attempt to fill the void that their deaths left, but the damage had already been done. Noctis couldn’t stand to live in that place without the other half of what had actually made it home and neither could Prompto.

Prompto doesn’t know if he can try it again. He doesn’t really _want_ to. What would he do, alone all the time in their little apartment? Even the promise of Noctis returning isn’t much of a comfort. What if he doesn’t come back before all the warmth that’s seeped into every room fades away? What if he goes and then realizes there’s no reason to come back?

“It would suck,” Prompto repeats. He laughs tonelessly. “I know you just want everything to be okay and good, but... Do me a favour, Noct?”

Noctis swallows. His voice sounds raw as he asks, “What?”

“The next time I tell you I’m always going to be at your side… Believe me, okay?”

Noctis swallows again and then opens his mouth to speak, but no sound reaches his lips. He stalls briefly, then presses his lips together tightly and nods wordlessly.

Prompto smiles and leans forward to wrap his hands around Noctis’ to grasp at the picture just under his fingertips. Noctis’ hands are damp with the droplets of water gathering on the edges of his poncho, his skin cool and taught over his knuckles. Prompto squeezes them, maybe even as hard as Noctis squeezes the paper under his fingers.

“I’m always going to be at your side.”

For a moment, there’s nothing to break the utter silence that follows except for the rain and rumbling thunder outside. Prompto wills himself not to move, not to blink, and it takes only the barest effort.

Then, Noctis finally takes a deep, shuddering breath, one that Prompto feels under his hands as it ripples through his body. He wrenches his hands free of Prompto’s, tosses the photographs down on the passenger seat, and surges forward again with his hands on Prompto’s cheeks and his lips crushed against Prompto’s. Prompto makes a muffled yelp from the surprise of it, of Noctis’ chilly fingers and their noses and teeth meeting, but as soon as he gets his bearings again he welcomes the kiss with open arms, pulls Noctis closer by his shoulders, even, until his lungs are burning.

“I thought you were gonna suggest breaking up,” Prompto admits into the mere centimeters between them between one kiss and the next. “I was gonna--break your nose or something.”

“ _No_ ,” Noctis gasps, strangled and dismayed. “No, I--I just had to be _sure_ , Prompto. Six, you’ve been one of the only constants in my life and--and I want _something_ to stay the same--but the more I thought about leaving, the more I was worried that you’d realize you were getting a lot more than you signed up for. I couldn’t stop thinking about it--I couldn’t stop thinking that you wouldn’t--you’d…”

“What--break up with you?” Prompto sputters in disbelief. Noctis really thought that? That Prompto would leave him behind?

_How?_

“It sounds really stupid when you say it out loud,” Noctis says in a small voice. His hands drift away from Prompto’s face, grazing instead along his neck.

“That’s because it _is_ stupid,” Prompto retorts. He pulls back slightly and buries his fingers in his hair. “I mean--Noct, you gotta know…” he trails off, mouth open with hardly a breath passing his lips, because he doesn’t know what to say.

Noctis has always stood taller than him. Whereas Prompto has always felt uncertain and anxious, hyper-aware and fidgety in situations that might only serve to hurt him, Noctis has always stood like a pillar of stone in rushing water, solid and unwavering. He always manages to come up with a plan when Prompto’s floundering, and even when he does admit to being nervous he doesn’t let it stop him from rolling his shoulders back and dealing with the problem.

Noctis has always been the one to alleviate Prompto’s fears through moments of sincerity and distraction. Prompto, on the other hand, has barely been able to do the same in return beyond an honest opinion and a shoulder to lean on. He’s almost never needed to do more.

But Noctis has never been so confused before, either. He’s never hunched his shoulders so far in, never worn such a rueful smile. He’s never looked so worn down by the wind and water around him.

Prompto doesn’t know where the ability to take charge comes from. He doesn’t know how to summon such confidence. But right now, he knows--belatedly, maybe--that he needs to _try_. He isn’t strong--but he _needs_ to be.

He takes a deep breath, steadying his hands, his heart, and hopes he sounds at least half as cool and sure as Noctis usually does as he puts his hands on Noctis’ shoulders and says, “Let’s do it. Let’s do the best we can in the festival and then go home and pack a few things--and then let’s go to Insomnia. We’ll go on a _road trip_ , except this time we’ll go even farther than the chocobo ranch--although it probably won’t hurt to stop for a visit--and when we get to Leide, we’ll see things we’ve never _seen_ before.”

“And you’ll take pictures of all of them,” Noctis adds. His features soften bit by bit, starting in the tightness of his lips and moving all the way to his hands, finally warm against Prompto’s skin. He still smiles, but it’s looser, more genuine.

“You betcha,” Prompto replies with a wink. It comes a little easier now, his breath, the conviction. “And then, when we get to Insomnia, I’ll take pictures there, too. Before and after shots of you becoming a total badass.”

He can picture it. He can see them in their car, windows down as they travel beyond Duscae’s lush greenery into the desert of Leide. Noctis will drive with his knees when they’re the only ones on the road and Prompto will hang himself out the passenger window if he has to to get pictures the likes of which have not yet graced his camera. And then, Insomnia. He doesn’t know what will happen there any better than Noctis does, but he knows it’ll be important and that he’ll  _have_ to have his camera out--because that’s what their photo album is _for_. All the important things they want to remember.

Hopefully, Noctis can see it, too--them, on their way to something new but, Astrals willing, better.

“How does that sound?” Prompto asks finally. He tries for something bold, something fearless. Something showing promise.

He isn’t sure how successful he is at first. Noctis opens and closes his mouth a couple times, then ducks to hide his face behind the driver’s seat for a few seconds. When he resurfaces, his relief is palpable, etched clear throughout his body.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says, the corners of his mouth curving upward, his voice level. He pulls back and there’s a sense of urgency in the way he withdraws his hands to tug at his poncho. “There’s something I still have to tell you, but it can wait. I’m getting this poncho off and one of us is gonna move because I really wanna kiss you again and this seat is in the way.”

Prompto’s moving before he’s even thought about it, even though he winds up crawling over the cooler in the seat next to him, completely forgotten again. It’s only right for him to move, to limp through a few seconds of rain up to the front. It’s only right for Noctis to collect the fallen pictures milliseconds before Prompto falls into the seat and scatter them across the dashboard, to pull Prompto close and whisper against his lips, “ _Thank you, thank you, thank you_.”

It’s only right for Prompto to be strong when Noctis needs him to be, and, somehow, stronger even when he doesn’t. Two pillars standing in the rain, unmoved by the flowing waters.

 

\--

 

Old Lestallum is a straight shot down the southbound highway, almost a three-hour drive, give or take a few minutes due to driving conditions and pit stops, of which they take one because Ignis had cracked open a can of Ebony immediately after buckling his seat belt.

Ignis is more than familiar with the concept of all-nighters. More than once, a late night spent working has become an early morning. However, those instances only occurred over a night or two and didn’t affect his sleep schedule.

But he’s taken the implications of Noctis’ farewell to heart, and so he tries not to grimace when his definition of _morning_ on the day he and Gladio set out again turns out to be two in the afternoon.

Gladio had looked at the bedside clock, his phone, and then at Ignis, still in bed, and said in awe, “I didn’t think it was _possible_.”

Given their late start, they don’t arrive in Old Lestallum until just before six, when the sun is beginning to set and the sky is lending an orange hue to the town’s simultaneous desertion and crowdedness, silence and activity.

There’s very little of the activity that Ignis expects from a community known for its architecture and craftsmen, but hunters roam everywhere from the west end to the heart of town. They aren’t there for leisure, either--moving in and out of alleys, surveying buildings, redirecting traffic.

Noctis’ grave warning comes to mind as Ignis follows detour signs toward the northern end of town, to somewhere he can park the Regalia. Old Lestallum has blinding floodlights to ward daemons away, but come nightfall the next day, the entire town may not be protected by them.

“Place looks like a warzone,” Gladio comments soberly, his gaze lingering on the boarded windows in the buildings around them, as if the reality of the town’s necessary precautions for the Festival of the Hunt hadn’t quite sunk in before. Some places look abandoned, but most businesses have signs posted confirming that they’re still open for business. Until tomorrow, that is.

“Many places in Lucis are,” Ignis reminds him. Many still endure under the consequences of frequent skirmishes with Niflheim’s army despite the appearances of a calm day to day life in Lestallum. “It doesn’t seem to be exactly how they view this, though. They welcome it and call it a festival, after all.”

“Funny way to hold a festival is all,” Gladio murmurs. “Gotta hand it to ‘em, though. The fact that this town hasn’t been wiped off the map yet is really something.”

“I read something of it during my research,” Ignis says conversationally. Materials had been readily at hand as he’d been pleasantly surprised to find, likely in an effort to inform the general population of the dangers involved. The organizational processes are still somewhat a mystery, but he’s familiar enough with anecdotes and the history of the festival. “To invite the daemons and the havoc they cause in--the costs of repairs must be massive. But this tradition began when the Empire was in control of the area, did it not?”

Gladio snorts. “The costs of repairs would have been on them, then, right? The people out here are really stick to their guns, huh?”

“Indeed.”

Ignis hums as he’s finally able to drive without a hunter or a sign guiding the way. A motel is fast approaching and he pulls into the sparsely filled parking lot. Across the street is a Crow’s Nest diner that looks much more lively inside. The exterior of the building is fortified with bars on the windows and a pair of dormant floodlights, and pitched next to it is a large tarpaulin with _Meldacio Hunter HQ_ painted across it. A couple of hunters are milling beneath it with a small collection of crates while a few more are being offloaded from a small truck.

“Kenny Crow’s in on it, too, by the looks of it,” Gladio comments.

“I imagine several local businesses are,” Ignis says as he parks the car. Control of the local government has been taken repeatedly from Lucis and their enemy, but at the moment it remains in the hands of Cleigne’s people while the Empire’s focus is in Cavaugh. So, the people here will need to be able to handle repairs themselves. “For such an operation to succeed? It can only be done if everyone works together. Speaking of which…”

“Do you know where you’re going?” Gladio asks as Ignis unbuckles himself and then checks that his phone and wallet are in his pockets.

Ignis knows what he’s really asking, so he answers that question instead after they climb out of the car. “I haven’t the faintest clue as to where Noctis is, aside from somewhere in this town. However, the proprietor of the Crow’s Nest will likely be able to point me in the right direction seeing as they all seem to be working alongside the hunters. Shall we? We’re running low on time.”

“Lead the way,” Gladio says as they start walking. “We should have asked where to meet in the first place, huh?”

That would have been the smart and convenient thing to do, yes. In the moment, it had been an afterthought. _Where_ to speak with Noctis again hadn’t seemed quite as important as the very fact that it was made possible to begin with. Ignis hadn’t fully realized his mistake, either, until he’d written in his last report back to the Citadel that they’d been given another opportunity--if only they don’t miss it because they don't know where they’re going.

Back to square one, it seems. But not quite. He’ll have to be more diligent in the future.

In lieu of a proper location, Ignis has the low, simmering feeling of anticipation in his gut, stoked by every step toward the Crow’s Nest. If Noctis is willing to welcome them in any way, he hopefully won’t make it difficult.

The low din of several conversations happening at once fills the air as Ignis and Gladio step inside. The cook is engaged with someone sitting at the counter, but he notices the newcomers quickly and steps away to greet them.

“Welcome to the original Crow’s Nest,” he says with a jovial smile. “Can I getcha somethin’ if you’re feelin’ peckish?”

“We were actually hoping you could assist us,” Ignis replies, leaning lightly against the counter. “We’re trying to get in contact with a hunter, but the best we know at the moment is that he is currently here in town.”

“Kenny and I know a fair amount of hunters,” the cook says. He gestures toward a few of his patrons. “Here for the festival, isn’t he?”

“He is.”

“Might be that you can find him down at the garrison, then.”

Ignis blinks. Surely he doesn’t mean Fort Vaullerey. “There’s a garrison here?”

“There’s the hunters’ garrison,” the cook says, nodding. “It’s on the south side of town, down by the river, past the bridge. The hunters built it way back when the festival began and they’ve cleaned it up every year since so that they all have a place to stay. I can give ya the directions if you want to check it out.”

Ignis reaches into the inner pocket of his blazer for the thin notebook resting there as he says, “That would be wonderful, thank you.”

The directions are simple; a turn here and there to reach Old Lestallum’s central road, through a barricade marking indicating one of the boundaries of the festival, then a short drive along the river Wennath. The garrison doesn’t house every participating hunter, but Ignis is sure that it will at least house Noctis for the week since he lives in Lestallum.

“They’ve got barracks set up and everything,” Gladio says as they step out into the warm evening air again. “That should make it easy.”

“Indeed.” Ignis glances at the directions he’d jotted down once more before tucking the notebook away. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to find their destination. Turning his gaze toward the motel, he asks, “Should we think about a place to rest now or later?”

Even as before he’s finished speaking, Ignis’ mind wanders away from the question of where they’ll be sleeping as they approach the motel parking lot. Another car is parked near the Regalia that hadn’t been there before a few scant minutes ago, its black paint gleaming in comparison to the thin coat of dust that the Regalia had gathered over the course of the past few days. The Vixen is still running, but its passengers are leaning against its trunk.

“Looks like it’ll be later,” Gladio says, sounding somewhat bewildered.

Noctis sees them first, but doesn’t react much beyond raising his head up from where he’d been looking previously. He remains casual, arms crossed loosely and legs crossed at the ankle. Prompto spots them soon after and waves quickly with a wide smile, which is a far cry from the last time he’d looked at Ignis. Ignis tries to find any hints of anxiety, any signs that his reaction to them isn't genuine, but there is none. 

“You made it,” Noctis calls as they get within earshot.

“How’d you know we were over here?” Gladio asks.

Noctis shrugs. “Asked you to meet me here, didn’t I?”

In the same moment, Prompto points at the Regalia and says, “We took the old girl for a tune-up and saw your ride.”

Noctis gives the ground between them a flat look. “That, too.”

“Ah,” Ignis says, suppressing more than a friendly smile. A meeting of chance, after all. “Well, yes, here we are. I take it you two are well?”

“Yep!” Prompto says brightly to accompany Noctis’ nod.

Ignis takes it as a much better sign that it was likely meant to be, a sign that he was right to keep his hopes up during the days in which he and Gladio could do little more than wait. He continues carefully, “And you’ve put some thought into what we spoke about?”

Noctis nods once more, levelling his gaze with theirs. “Yeah, I have. I made my decision.”

“Which is?” Gladio prompts. His arms are crossed tight, a restless mirror of Noctis.

“I’ll go to the Crown City, to Insomnia,” Noctis answers resolutely. He holds two fingers up. “On two conditions.” He pauses, brow furrowing briefly in thought, then lifts a third finger. “Three conditions.”

“Name them.”

“First, I get training with my magic.”

Ignis nods. Conditional or not, Noctis’ training will be seen to. Ignis hadn’t lied when they last spoke--Noctis has much more experience using his magic than Ignis had expected from someone with no formal training--but he agrees with Noctis’ concerns about his control. Noctis is powerful, that much is obvious. That much power without equal control, however, could spell trouble. It likely already has.

“Second,” Noctis continues as he nudges Prompto. “He comes with me.”

Prompto mimics holding a camera in his hands. “ _Snap, snap_ \--someone’s gotta document this road trip.”

Ignis agrees to that, too, even though he can see issues in getting Prompto into Insomnia. A Lucian citizen he may be, but without the necessary paperwork… Before Noctis’ disappearance, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but as the city operates now, the necessary clearance can take weeks to obtain. They have some leeway in terms of time, but not that much.  

But it’s no matter. Ignis has some weight to throw, even if he rarely uses it. He can make an exception. Gladio, too, with his connections in the Crownsguard.

“There wasn’t any doubt in our minds,” Gladio says with a slight chuckle. “There might be issues getting him through the security checkpoints, but leave those to me. What’s the last one?”

Noctis glances at Prompto, who responds with a thumbs up. “Last,” he says, “we stay here until the festival’s over, and we hunt.” He gestures at Ignis and Gladio, then himself and Prompto. “You two, on a team with us.”

Ignis exchanges a quick look with Gladio and hopes that they don’t seem so obviously taken by surprise. Noctis seems to misinterpret the response.

“You took my advice, didn’t you?” he asks.

“I woke up at two in the afternoon today,” Ignis says by way of confirmation. The last time he’d done so had been after a bout of illness two winters ago. It’s somewhat unsettling to wake up and have so little of the day left.

“Nice,” Prompto says, laughing lightly. “That’s like Noct’s preferred wake-up time.”

“I was only surprised that you intended to invite us on your team as well as into the festival itself,” Ignis explains. “Pleasantly, mind you.”

“Yeah, well,” Noctis runs his fingers along the edges of his bangs, tucking them behind one ear and then brushing them back over his forehead. “If I’m crossing the country with you guys, I wanna see how you work together.”

“You’ve seen us fight,” Gladio points out.

“Against wild animals,” Noctis counters. “Daemons are a lot different.”

“Are they?”

“Yes,” Noctis and Prompto say in unison. Noctis continues, arms crossed again, “And besides--you’re kind of taking me out of the field here. You might as well stick around and make sure there’s gonna be less trouble around while I’m gone.”

That _is_ a fair point. Regardless of Noctis’ insinuation that he’ll be returning to the field, the fact remains that two skilled, capable hunters will be off duty for the foreseeable future once the Festival of the Hunt is over.

“So?” Noctis asks. “What do you say?”

Ignis knows what his answer is, but he confers silently with Gladio anyway. The conditions are simple, bearing issues only where Prompto’s clearance into Insomnia is concerned. The timing can be accommodated, as well. If they leave next week, then they should still be able to return ahead of Niflheim’s delegation. Should Niflheim propose a sooner date, then the King might attempt to negotiate another and stall them.

Beyond that, Ignis has no qualms with remaining here. For whichever reason Noctis named it as a condition, he wants Ignis and Gladio nearby, and so Ignis will gladly go. This is the opportunity he’s been waiting for--hoping for years, fighting to stay as close to the heart of the Citadel as he could so that if the chance ever came, he would be ready.

And he is, even if Noctis no longer remembers him--and no matter how that had stung him. Knowing in his heart from the echo of Noctis’ voice-- _why would I remember you?_ \--is different than knowing in his mind from evidence collected during their previous encounters. It’s the ache of old splinters driven in deep under his skin, sharp and twisting. It’s the pain of an old injury, of failure, come back to haunt him.

Such a thing should be a blessing--Noctis having no memory of Ignis means he would see no reason for any trepidation on Ignis’ part. They have a clean slate. And yet.

And yet, Ignis remembers that night, even though Noctis doesn’t.

It does not feel like a blessing.

This, though. This moment. Noctis’ conditional return. He can do this.

Gladio is in agreement, too. He nods once, slowly, his head angled toward the pair before them.

“I believe we have reached an accord,” Ignis finally answers.

Noctis smiles. It’s faint and lopsided, and it’s tiny compared to Prompto’s grin, but it’s there. It’s enough. He pushes off the trunk of his car and holds his right hand out, and when Ignis takes it his shake is firm, his hand steady and warm.

“ _Sick_ ,” Prompto says with an enthusiastic fist pump. “We’re a whole team now; we’re gonna be badass.”

A team. The notion--Prompto’s declaration, Gladio’s answering laugh, low and rumbling--is like electricity in Ignis’ chest, waking a restlessness in him. There’s much to do if they’re to be a _good_ team, and they don’t have much time left.

“It’s settled then,” Noctis says. He points his thumb over his shoulder as he moves back toward the driver’s side door of his car. “We’re gonna head over to the garrison; we’ll show you the way. We’ve already got bunks there, but you two need to get your names in the book. After that, we’ll tell you what you need to know about the competition.”

Ignis already knows a fair amount, but more information from someone with first-hand experience can never be amiss. This is also the last place to refuse additional information. He follows Noctis’ lead and climbs back into the Regalia, following him out of the parking lot a moment later.

This is their clean slate, their new beginning. He will not see it be for naught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ever just get run over by your own life and your own creative creation at the same time? Boy HOWDY this chapter took some doing; there were a lot of different beginnings before I landed here and the two things that I needed to have happen came through about as easily as Noctis eating vegetables does. But we're here! Prompto's taking some new steps and we're starting to dig a little more into Ignis, and we've made it to the precipice of like 70% of why I wanted to write this fic! 
> 
> I've drawn a fair amount of inspiration for this whole story from Final Fantasy IX, which is a favourite of mine. This is most noticeable with the inclusion of the Festival of the Hunt, an event that happens fairly early in that game and serves as the base for the event in this fic. I had entertained the thought of Noctis and Prompto being badass and participating somehow in such a thing a while ago and it went through several different adaptations--the series for "it's just you and me" actually started here, too--until this fic grew from it. This is why the next few chapters will probably be longer than the previous ones; there's a lot packed into them and we've slowly been building up to them :0
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments and for your patience after my kinda-sorta update schedule was thrown off! I could have ended this chapter at the average word length, but instead it's one of the longest because I wanted to make up for that :'D Hopefully I will be more on track next time; there's lots to look forward to!


	11. the festival of the hunt

Their first stop is finding Dave, which is easy. In the front gate and to the left, like last year, he’s crammed into an office, surrounded by paper, computers, and a phone, which they have to wait for him to put down before they can talk to him. They pet his dog in the meantime, very enthusiastically in Prompto’s case.

Dave pulls the book out from under another notebook he’d been writing in during his phone call and flips to the same page Noctis and Prompto had signed their names on when Noctis explains that it isn’t just him and Prompto anymore. The onceover Dave gives Ignis and Gladio before he hands the book over to Noctis is calculating but still friendly, and his welcome is spoken with a warm tone.

Noctis glances at the page as he passes the book on. The empty spaces under his and Prompto’s names had been scored out, but there’s still space next to their signatures. He points it out and hands the book to Ignis, who draws a pen out from inside his jacket.

Ignis pauses before he writes his name. It could be because he’s questioning whether or not his name will fit, but Noctis is pretty sure he catches Ignis’ eyes lingering on his name. _Noctis Amatus_ is signed there, written in the same style Noctis’ mom wrote her signature because Noctis liked to try and copy it as a kid and it stuck. But Ignis probably thinks it should be… _Lucis Caelum_ , doesn’t he? The royal line.

That’s not who he’s signing up to compete with, though.

He says nothing about it, either way, as he writes his name neatly next to Prompto’s. Noctis almost wonders why he chooses that space until he sees Gladio write his full name a few seconds later. _Gladiolus Amicitia_ is a long name that definitely won’t fit on the same line as Prompto’s loose signature.

“Good luck out there, boys,” Dave says as the book comes full circle back to him. He nods toward Ignis and Gladio. “You two, especially. This is the first time I’ve seen you in the field; would hate for it to be the last.”

“Thanks for the concern,” Gladio replies. “Don’t worry too much, though. We’re new to hunting, but not to fighting.”

Dave nods as he waves farewell, but the tilt of his chin speaks of someone who’s heard a line like that a hundred times--which he has. Hell, Noctis said something like it to him when he first started hunting after years of getting used to his magic and mock fighting with his dad. Dave had only given him a sad look in response.

The next order of business is a tour of the garrison--a short one, and only because they have to pass by pretty much everything in it to get to the hunters’ quarters since it isn’t an especially large place. The infirmary is close to the front gate as well and the quarters are on the other side of a wide, open yard spreading out from the parking lot. Between them is the mess hall and the armoury, and scattered throughout the whole place are washrooms. All the necessities for a group of hunters who only really inhabit the place once a year.

Their temporary quarters are small, utilitarian. They’re just big enough to house four hunters in bunk beds and store enough of their belongings to live through the week in a row of lockers on the wall opposite the door. Last year, Noctis and Prompto had shared with a lone hunter, and Prompto had accidentally whacked them in the face with his elbow on his way out of bed. Hopefully, that doesn't happen again, even though the room is a little crowded this time.

“I can switch if someone wants mine,” Prompto says as he points to one of the top bunks. His duffel bag is already up there, a black chocobo charm dangling off the mattress from the strap. “I’m stepping up and offering ‘cause Noct will probably die before he gives his up.”

Noctis sends him a withering glare. He never had bunk beds as a kid, so it’s a bit of a novelty to him. So what?

Gladio snorts. “I’m fine down by the ground.”

“I don’t mind, either,” Ignis says as he moves to peek into one of the empty lockers. “Hm. Spacious.”

“Yeah, they are,” Prompto agrees. “You can grab your stuff later and shove it all in there. It’ll be way better than having to go back and forth from your car. Even Gladio’s giant sword should fit in there.”

Ignis turns to look at Gladio over his shoulder and they have another one of their weird, silent conversations. Gladio shrugs at the end of it.

“Uh,” Prompto says, uncertain. “What? What did I say?”

“The lockers will indeed be convenient for everything else, but we already have a place to store our weapons, in a manner of speaking,” Ignis says. For an explanation, it doesn’t really answer much.

“What do you mean by that?” Noctis asks.

Ignis gives him a thoughtful look, then says in a careful tone, “It involves magic. The King’s magic, specifically, but also yours once you learn to use it.”

If that’s not confirmation that Noctis is missing a few vital pieces of information, he doesn’t know what is. He glances between Ignis and Gladio, waiting for a real explanation. The last time he’d seen them fight, they’d had their weapons on them, carried a greatsword and daggers on their backs. Where do their weapons go when they aren’t using them? What does magic have to do with it?

Ignis doesn’t tell them. Instead, he holds his hand out in front of him. With a flash of light and a shower of crystals not unlike the ones that ring through the air when Noctis blinks, a dagger appears in his hand. The same dagger he’d fought with before, right out of thin air.

Prompto jumps back with a startled yelp. “What--did you just pull that out of--where did that _come_ from?”

“Nowhere, technically,” Ignis says, turning the dagger over in his hand. He presses the flat of the blade against the back of his free hand. It’s solid and sharp, the tip threatening to break skin. It’s real--until it shimmers white and blue again and disappears. “The ability to conjure weapons is one of several subclasses of the Crystal’s magic, and one that those blessed by the King are able to use. Before Gladio and I departed, His Majesty allowed us access to a fraction of his magic, but, regretfully, I cannot tell you much more. Neither of us has any substantial training beyond this.”

“I’m a little more familiar with it on account of my family’s proximity to the royal family,” Gladio adds, “but our training for this all together was pretty much a crash course just before we left Insomnia.”

He goes on--probably--but Noctis doesn’t quite hear it. He stares at Ignis’ empty palm, the space a weapon had just been occupying before it disappeared in the blink of an eye. He hadn’t felt any pull of magic, the chill, tingle, or heat that comes with it and lingers in his fingertips. But the light, the glimmer, had been unmistakeable, at least to his eye. It was _his magic_ \--but not.

It had been the King’s magic. A _subclass_ of it.

“So… I can learn how to do that,” he says finally, right in the middle of whatever Gladio had been saying blessings and connections. He waves his hand through the air, mimicking Ignis’ gesture. How is it supposed to work? “Just--pull things out of thin air and put it back.”

Ignis nods. “That’s correct.”

Prompto whistles lowly. “Dude. That’s kinda badass. Is it just weapons?”

Ignis blinks and turns his head toward him.

“What?” Prompto asks, shrugging. “It’s a legitimate question. It just looks, y’know, useful.”

“If an item is connected with magic, yes,” Ignis answers after a brief pause. “I believe it’s possible.”

“That is useful,” Noctis agrees. He smiles at Prompto. “And totally badass. I could have been doing that the whole time, imagine that.”

He likes to think he’s gotten pretty slick with the literal trick up his sleeve--a press against the fastening under his sleeve and a jerk in the right direction with just enough force has a weapon in his hand in less than four seconds--but to be able to keep it hidden on him the entire time? It’d certainly save him from carrying extra weight.

And if Ignis and Gladio can do it, then Prompto could probably be able to. It’d save _him_ the weight of his rifle, too.  

“You’d be wicked,” Prompto says with a tilted grin.

Ignis can’t tell them much more about it, especially in their tiny quarters and their lack of demonstration space. They move on--to the mess hall, because Noctis had been hoping to stop for food by now, but running errands had taken longer than he’d anticipated, and so he’s _hungry_.

It’s a good thing he didn’t also have to comb through the whole town to find these two. Prompto had been all for Noctis’ split-second decision to have them tag along--because apparently, Gladio is that much of a chill dude--but he’d been quick to point out that no specific time or place had been offered or provided by anyone.

“Uh, good going, buddy,” were his exact words, to which Noctis responded by hiding his face in his palms for a few seconds because, yeah, good going. As soon as they came into town to bring the car into the shop, Prompto had all but glued his face to the window to make sure they didn’t miss the distinctive Crown City car. Thank the Six, it had worked out and there’s nothing to stop Noctis from finding something to shove in his mouth.

The recently cleaned and reopened kitchen in the garrison is no Crow’s Nest, but it serves its purpose well enough. The food is warm and there are tables large enough for the whole group to sit and eat, and then squint at a map of Old Lestallum that Noctis had brought along from his bag to help fill Ignis and Gladio in on what they’re going to be doing.

The map isn’t like Lestallum’s, where trying to keep track of everything mixed into the maze of the city can take ages to get used to. Old Lestallum is a properly sized town as far as populated areas go in Cleigne, but it’s still small and most of its streets are much more spacious and fit together in a loose grid clinging to the bank of the river Wennath. It’s easy to look at, easy to analyze. There are scribbled shorthand notes and sloppy arrows pointing at specific intersections and streets in blue pen, but they’re just old, senseless leftovers from last year’s festival now. The red lines surrounding the blue, dividing the streets from each other, however, remain relevant.

Old Lestallum’s residential population--the fraction that tends to stay come hell or high water, anyway--is concentrated almost entirely in the north end of town, away from the garrison and, with the help of barricades and strategically placed lights, away from the daemons that will come crawling once half of the other lights are off. So, Noctis had taken a red marker and drawn lines through the grid of the streets, from Strathmore near the heart of town down to Capell on the outskirts, passing King and the bridge on the way down. The several blocks in between are all going dark. Fair game for the daemons and the hunters.

“Ignore all this,” Noctis says, waving over the blue arrows and notes. “Those are from last year; I think it’d be good if we switched things up a bit this time. The red hasn’t changed, though--this is our hunting ground.”

“The garrison’s in the red,” Gladio comments neutrally.

“It’ll have lights on,” Noctis reassures him. “We won’t be near it at first, anyway. It’s gonna take a bit for the daemons to try going that far into town, so I think a good place for us to start would be… here, probably.”

He points to an intersection almost smack in the middle of the festival grounds. The Virens-Crest cross is near where he and Prompto had started last year, closer to the outskirts of town, but not so far from the barricades and the garrison that they’ll be at the complete mercy of the daemons. It’s got the space for blinking and the space for all sorts of sharp weapons. A safe bet.

Ignis gives the map a long, scheming look. “Tell us how this starts, then,” he says.

Noctis drinks the last of the water leftover from his meal and tells them, mixing his and Prompto’s own experience from last year with what they’ve learned from study and hearsay.

First, the sun sets. Deep indigo follows in its wake, but the stars, still hidden by light pollution, don’t follow just yet. The hunters leave the garrison, one by one by two, three, four, and take up their chosen starting places with the echo of Dave’s voice at their backs.

_Good luck, hunters. Godspeed, defenders in the night._

Night falls, and then come the bells ringing slow and bone-deep from the garrison’s south-west tower, a signal to the hunters and to anyone else who might be wandering around where it isn’t safe. And then, one after another, the floodlights south of King shut down. In their place are the town’s backup emergency lights, saturated orange and far too dim to fend off daemons. They cast long, deep shadows, and from those shadows come the whispers and hisses, the bubbling rot and miasma.

From there, it’s every team for themselves as the hunters take on whichever daemons they can handle--except, Noctis remembers with a phantom ache in his chest, in circumstances of life and death. It’s all about taking out the daemons and snagging whatever spoils they can before everything decomposes into sludge that’ll burn away in the sun, except in those moments where they turn the corner and find that someone else has gotten in over their head, that they need to be carried back to the garrison before they die barely halfway through the week.

From there, the only light coming back before the end of the festival is the sun. Come daytime, the hunters store all their loot in the cellars just underneath the garrison, patch themselves up, get some food and some rest, and then do it all over again. And then, after the seventh night, they count everything up before it all gets hauled across the river and left on Fort Vaullerey’s doorstep. The more challenging the enemy, the more points they net, and the hunters who collected the most get a prize, something to show for their efforts.

Supposedly, people dance on the ashes of the daemonic remnants as they decompose in the middle of the road, but Noctis has nothing to back that up with. He hadn’t managed to see that particular ceremony for himself last year.

“We joke a lot about it, sometimes,” Prompto says as Noctis is recounting how they’d wound up halfway across town from where they’d started last year on their first night. “But when you’re actually out there, the daemons can pop up practically out of nowhere, so you gotta be, like, right on the ball. We gotta _mesh_. We did okay at that last time, right? With the voreteeth?”

“We weren’t too bad,” Gladio says, shrugging one shoulder. He then fixes Noctis with a stern look. “We only knew the basics then, though. Ignis and I didn’t know about your magic or the extent that you could use it.”

“And we still don’t,” Ignis joins in. “But perhaps you can enlighten us. You seem proficient with warping and elemancy--that is to say, the ability to harness elements such as fire--but is that the extent of your knowledge?”

Warping--the term Ignis had used for his blinking before, again--and elemancy. Noctis hadn’t known there were actual names for them, or that they were only a couple of several subclasses of magic. Do the recurring dreams also count as one, too?

He nods slowly, anyway. “I can blink--uh, warp?--and if I can get a few seconds to focus, I can use ice or lightning, too, not just fire. I’ve been working on finessing them, but that’s about it.”

“So, you’ve picked up the basics,” Gladio says, sounding somewhat impressed. “And you’re not half bad with them. There are other ways it can be used, but we can work with what you’ve got.”

“What about you guys?” Noctis asks, thinking again about the way Ignis had drawn a dagger from nowhere. “Any other fancy tricks we should know about?”

Ignis’ reply is on the cusp of nonchalance and accompanied by a small shake of his head and a brief gesture toward Gladio, but Noctis doesn’t catch a single syllable. Their mouths keep moving, too, but their words are muffled by the disconcerting sensation of something heavy and thick blocking his eardrums when Noctis _knows_ there’s nothing there.

The familiar pain starts in the back of his skull, sharpening until the white lights illuminating the mess hall are like glass shards hanging above him. It travels past his right ear, filling it with a high-pitched ringing, and he almost asks if _this_ is related to a subclass of magic, too, because _this_ \--the suddenness, the sharpness, the disorientation--only happens in connection with it. He hasn’t been _using_ any magic, though. Not really. He’s been taking it easy, doing nothing more than light practices with it to keep himself sharp for the festival.

So why does this keep happening?

The hazy face of the King surfaces in his memory, the man in the dream who’d told Noctis to sit with him, who’d told him to walk tall--whatever that’s supposed to mean. He’s connected to it, too--is this _his_ doing?

Noctis clenches his hands tight under the table and stares hard at the map, tracing the red lines over and over as he runs his thoughts in circles, too. _Stop. It hurts. Stop. I don’t know what you want. Make it stop._

The pain doesn’t stop. Noctis opens his mouth to ask even though he knows the answer already. Neither Ignis nor Gladio had known what was going on with him before when he’d collapsed, and it’s not like anyone can do anything about it now except freak out again, which is not what he wants, but _damn_ _it_ \--

Noctis takes a deep breath and then, like a thread being snapped, the headache disappears, leaving nothing but an odd sensation of weightlessness and the ringing that dulls by the second, fading steadily as the conversation filters back in.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Gladio is saying to Prompto, who looks excited by something. Noctis, unsure of how long he’s been out of it, can’t tell if they’ve changed the subject or if Gladio has told them about some kind of cool maneuver he knows. He doesn’t get the chance to find out, either, because Gladio turns to him with a slanted smile a second later and asks, “What do you say, Noctis?”

Prompto and Ignis look toward him as well. Noctis still has no clue what he’s being asked to do. He’s still reeling a bit from the sudden onset and then disappearance of the headache, and before he can speak, he has to work on pushing his heart back out of his throat because it had come for seemingly no reason at all and gone just the same. What if he really is losing it?

But everyone is expecting something--something that doesn’t point to him losing his marbles--so he scrambles for a response that isn’t, well, _that_.

“Sorry, I missed that,” he says quickly. He scratches the side of his head and then waves his hand through the air. “I was distracted--thinking about the conjuring thing again.”

Gladio seems to buy it. Or, if he doesn’t, he’s good at keeping a straight face. Ignis, too. Noctis isn’t going to even try cracking that one. If Prompto notices, he doesn’t say it.

“You and me, a little one on one,” Gladio explains. “I wanna know more about how you fight if we’re gonna be doing more of it together. It’s a lot easier to use my shield when I’ve got a better handle on what I’m working with. Easy, right?”

Oh, they’d gotten all the way around to sparring. That makes sense. They don’t really know each other beyond their single hunt together, after all.

Prompto nods along. “I thought it’d be cool since you guys are kinda gonna be more up close and personal than I am. You’re doin’ all the head bashing. Imagine if you just kept stepping on everyone’s toes, though.”

Noctis hums in agreement. Prompto has a point--they’ve stepped on toes before, especially when they first got started, and someone always wound up in a little more pain than a stubbed toe. He and Prompto are more experienced now, but the middle of the Festival of the Hunt is probably one of the worst places to figure out that they don’t actually mix well with their new teammates.

Ignis chimes in to answer the question on Noctis’ tongue of why he’s apparently not up for a match, too. “While you’re busy, Prompto has volunteered to assist me in unpacking a few things from the car. Gladio is already more than familiar with my fighting habits, so I’m not immediately needed. Provided you haven’t bashed each other’s heads in, I’ll join you once we’re finished.”

Noctis leans back and looks around the table under the guise of consideration. In the seconds that pass, he remains blissfully free of any more headaches. If the pain is coming back for a second round, then it’s taking its sweet time. Probably enough time to get some first-hand experience with Gladio’s frankly ridiculous strength.

“Sure, then,” Noctis answers. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

\--

Despite all earlier hopes and predictions about the rest of the night, Noctis winds up finding himself in no shortage of pain. Not in his head, though. No. After Prompto and Ignis break away, Noctis and Gladio borrow a couple of old, dull blades from the armoury to warm up with in an out of the way corner of the yard. The warm-up goes well, but then they decide to get serious, and that’s when Gladio effectively kicks his ass.

Noctis isn’t incompetent or anything, and he’s far from inexperienced--but Gladio admits early on to having extensive training from Insomnia and it shows. He’s a slow hitter, but when he lands a hit he lands it hard, and then he manages to dodge and parry faster than Noctis expects. Noctis himself is light on his feet, so Gladio isn’t _quick_ to put him on his ass, but does still do it, again and again.

Noctis almost gets annoyed about it. Almost, but not quite. As he’s catching his breath on the ground, Gladio offers a hand, large and steady and covered in as many callouses as Noctis’ is, and helps Noctis back to his feet. He points out where Noctis was aiming too wide or not paying attention, or mentions a maneuver that “looks like a Crownsguard move, but altered,” whatever that means. It’s not unlike any other time Noctis has sparred with other hunters.

And then, as Noctis is glancing around the yard, squinting through the intense white of the garrison’s floodlights and the harsh, narrow shadows thrown through it by the hunters milling around for Prompto and Ignis, Gladio claps his hand on Noctis’ shoulder and asks, “Where’d you learn to fight like that, anyway?”

“Why?” Noctis responds absentmindedly. He can’t see Prompto’s fluffy hair or Ignis’ gelled updo. He turns back to Gladio, who has his sword shouldered with an interested expression on his face.

“Because you’re good at it,” Gladio replies matter-of-factly, like he hadn’t just handed Noctis his ass on the flat of his giant sword. “And I wanna know. Where do hunters train?”

Noctis shrugs. To his knowledge, it isn’t like everyone went through boot camp or anything. Some trained with veterans in Meldacio, got their tags through an apprenticeship. Some found another hunter willing to train them personally, and some figured it out on their own. What really ties them together is that they all got in contact with Meldacio HQ and told them that they wanted to be a hunter, that they wanted to take up the responsibility, and so their names were saved in an archive and their dog tags were inscribed. The _where_ has never seemed as important as the _why_.

Prompto had heard about Noctis’ plans to become a hunter and then, after careful consideration of what he considered to be his most useful skills--his aim and his speed--spent countless hours at a firing range and whining at Noctis’ dad to show him tricks.

Noctis himself had known for years what he’d wanted to do. Idolizing his dad’s strength and itching for an outlet for his magic had led him to the dream of travelling around his home to protect it, so whenever his dad wasn’t away from home, Noctis had bothered him for lessons.

When it had come time for Noctis and Prompto to actually pick up the sword, neither of them had been completely certain that they were ready, but they’d located a tipster and taken a mark anyway. They’d driven out in Noctis’ new car, anxious and alone, and used practically everything they’d learned to cull a spiracorn on a rampage.

Noctis remembers that day, now--the long battle, the first time he’d blinked in an actual fight, the moment Prompto snapped the picture tucked away in the car, and the second Noctis wanted to call home to share their success. He hadn’t. Couldn’t, no matter how well they did despite feeling like they were suddenly in over their heads. But, it hadn’t felt like a complete loss.

“My dad taught me,” he finally answers, shuffling over to lean against the wall nearby. “He was a hunter, and whenever he wasn’t chasing daemons down, he’d show me how to fight like him. He showed Prompto, too, but Prom’s never been as good with swords the way he is with guns.”   

Gladio’s brow furrows just enough that Noctis is sure he’s going to point out that Noctis still has a dad, or something along that line. But then his expression does an odd thing where his eyes soften at the same time, and he says instead, “ _Was_ a hunter.”

Noctis nods. His throat feels dry, but not because he’s been breathing hard. “Yeah. He passed away. My… both my parents have. What, were you thinking about how lucky you were that you haven’t had to deal with them this whole time?”

Gladio is entirely unaffected by the jab. His brow actually smooths out. “We knew, actually. Sort of.”

Noctis frowns and crosses his arms. It’s an awkward move with a blade in his hand, but no less effective at conveying his puzzlement. “How? Wait--because you guys were watching me, right?”

Gladio shakes his head and saunters over to Noctis’ side. He lets his sword slide off his shoulder to stand propped up between them. “Nah. While we were heading to Lestallum, Iggy and I found a hunter who knew you. She mentioned that she knew your parents, too, but they weren’t around anymore. Vesta, if I remember right. Had a dog with her.”

Noctis sighs inwardly. He hasn’t seen Vesta since he and Prompto joined up with her to deal with the daemons south of the town, and he’s heard even less of her, but she did know his parents. She’d hunted with his dad, years and years ago, now. She’d been good friends with both his parents and he’d seen her periodically throughout his childhood--her and her dogs--but as Noctis had gotten older, he’d seen less of her. And then, after his dad died, Vesta only came into his life by chance.

Somehow, she’d pushed Gladio and Ignis into his life by chance, too--from halfway across the kingdom, no less. And still, not a word.

“I know her,” Noctis says warily, confirming Gladio’s memory. “What else did she tell you?”

“Nothing much,” Gladio answers. “We asked what Lestallum was like since we’d never been, and then we went our separate ways.”

So, Vesta hadn’t said anything about _how_ they’d died. Maybe Gladio assumes it was a hunt gone wrong, even though Noctis’ mom wasn’t a hunter. She was strong, but she didn’t use her strength out in the wilderness. She loved being in the city, loved knowing that she helped keep it so bright and lively. Her work was never supposed to collide with her husband’s.

But even the power plant has to deal with malfunctions sometimes, so, in a way, maybe it had been a hunt gone wrong.

Gladio doesn’t ask, though, or press for the detail.

“I won’t lie and say that I’m not glad that I don’t have to work around them,” he says, his tone completely frank as he runs his fingers through his hair and lets them linger on the back of his neck for a few seconds. “But you should know that whoever they were in life, whatever they did, I still respect them.”

Noctis looks up at him, blinking. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Gladio returns his gaze, but then breaks it quickly, surveying the yard instead. “I asked myself if they knew before, when they took you in. If they knew who you are. But it doesn’t matter anymore because…” he sighs and his eyes return to Noctis, hard but genuine. “Look, if everyone had their way, there’s a big chance you’d probably be dead. But you’re not--because someone else took you in, kept an eye on you, and taught you how to hold your own. So, yeah. I don’t know what happened back then, but you’re here now, and so I respect them for it.”

For a moment, Noctis doesn’t know how to respond. He’s glad, kind of. He’d been expecting… He doesn’t know, exactly, but it hadn’t been that. He’s not on the lookout for anyone’s approval about his family, either, but it’s nice to have in a roundabout way.

Gladio catches on to his hesitation and lets out a short half-laugh from under his breath. “Thought I was gonna tear your folks a new one or something?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Noctis admits.

“Nah,” Gladio says, shrugging lightly. “First of all, they’re dead--grant ‘em peace under the stars--and secondly… Don’t get me wrong, you’ve still got family waiting, but whatever else I think doesn’t matter. Not when those folks are gone, and not when they raised you like this.”

Noctis cocks a brow up as Gladio gestures at him. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you a bit,” Gladio counters. “Enough to know that you’re strong, that you’re a good man. I mean, I don’t see a guy like Prompto sticking so close to you otherwise. Is it a shock to you that we _want_ to know you, though? Why else did you bring Ignis and I along?”  

Because if Noctis had said nothing, they probably would have come anyway. Because his life is turning upside down and he needs an ounce of control over it. Because he doesn’t know how someone can sound heartbroken just because they knew him as a child.

“I get it, I guess,” he says. He searches the yard again, but Ignis and Prompto still aren’t in sight, even though it’s practically impossible to get lost in a garrison of this small. Eager to escape the current topic of conversation--because he’s never been good at ice breakers and he’s got a sneaking suspicion that that’s where they’re headed--he groans quietly. “What’s taking them so long? How much stuff do you and Specs have?”

Gladio laughs, but Noctis isn’t sure if he’s responding to the nickname Noctis had used before he’d known Ignis’ name, or if he’s implying that he and Ignis have a lot of things stashed in the trunk of their car.

“We packed light,” Gladio says affably. “When did you come up with the nickname?”

“Before I knew your names,” Noctis answers sheepishly. “When I saw you in Lestallum--y’know, when I almost got run over by a tourist again. No big. But the glasses were the, uh, most distinguishing feature.”

“Most distinguishing.”

“Yeah. And you were Muscles.”

Gladio chuckles. “Yeah, I guess they are distinguishing.”

He crosses his arms. His muscles flex, making the feathers inked into his skin shift and emphasize the gesture. Noctis watches them, a fleeting thought on the detail in them passing through his mind. He could ask about the tattoos--a pretty neutral subject, usually--but he opts instead to stay quiet.

It turns out, after only another moment of waiting--thank the Six--that the hold up on Prompto and Ignis’ end had been caused by a hunter arriving on chocobo-back just as Ignis was locking up his and Gladio’s car, and Prompto had been effectively distracted by the chocobo after its rider allowed him to greet it. But he eventually arrives with a few pieces of chocobo down stuck in his hair and several pictures on his camera, and Ignis arrives with his daggers, and Noctis gladly separates himself from the wall with his sword.

Ignis, too, kicks Noctis’ ass, but not quite as soundly as Gladio. He’s quick and every acrobatic move is calculated, his eyes measuring up Noctis’ every move, but he hadn’t trained to quite the same level as Gladio. The playing field is a little more even, and the back and forth dance feels almost natural. Ignis offers the same comments as Gladio, more or less, but he doesn’t follow them up by asking where Noctis learned to fight. He only says that Noctis’ skills are remarkable and that, provided Noctis doesn’t doesn’t overextend himself, Gladio should have little trouble defending him, too.

By the time they call it quits, Prompto has snapped more a dozen pictures of them duelling, and Noctis is ready to grab something to eat and go to sleep. That’s his usual sleep cycle talking, though. The hour is late--soon to be early--but not quite late enough, so they sit back in the mess hall with coffee instead, and they spend longer than usual looking through Prompto’s camera.

It’s always been just Noctis and Prompto leaning close to look at the camera’s small screen, clicking through the pictures. This time, Ignis is in the spotlight as much as Noctis is while Gladio lurks in a few of them, and they don’t look half bad.

“You guys are so photogenic,” Prompto says in admiration as he carefully hands his camera to Ignis so that he can see a shot that Prompto had grabbed of him just after parrying a blow from Noctis. He’d made the move look easy as he’d done it, but his face on the screen is set in concentration so sharp that it could have been carved from stone. Prompto always manages to make both of them look handsome in pictures, and he’s managed to do the same with Ignis.

“Why do you say that like it’s a surprise?” Gladio asks. His voice sounds like shifting gravel at any given moment, but now it sounds just enough like rumbling thunder that Prompto lets out the aborted squawking sound he makes when he’s suddenly nervous. Then, Gladio chuckles and leans easily on one elbow. “I’m joking. Of course Iggy’s photogenic; look at him.”

Noctis feels Prompto sag a little next to him, the brief jolt of tension leaking out of him. He presses his hands together like a prayer and says, “And my camera thanks him.”

Noctis lets the relief roll through him, too. He’d been about to wonder if their appearances were a sore spot or something--not so much with Gladio and the whole ruggedness thing he has going on, but Noctis had sent Ignis rolling on the tarmac a couple times and he’d come back up looking as put together as he had before they’d started sparring. Appearances as a source of tension really isn’t something Noctis wants to have to deal with.

If anything, though, Ignis looks pleased, if Noctis is reading the minute changes in his expression properly. He clicks through a couple more photos before returning Prompto’s camera with a small but proper smile.

“I’m not sure if I told you last we met,” he says amiably, “but you’re quite skilled with your photography.”

Prompto preens a little, practically glowing. “Aw, shucks. I’ve got a lot of practice, so I guess you could say that.”

“He _can_ say that,” Noctis says, bumping his shoulder against Prompto’s. “‘Cause he’s right.”

Prompto grins, so wide and unrestrained that his eyes crinkle up near to slits, and for a moment Noctis can forget that they haven’t all known each other for years, that this isn’t the first time Ignis’ or Gladio’s faces have been saved on the camera’s memory card. For a moment, it feels like there’s nowhere else they should have been than here, two to a side at a table in the dead of night, trying to stay awake a little longer so that they can be even more a flock of night owls the next night.

After the pictures have been sorted through, though, Noctis can tell that Gladio and Ignis are flagging. They make a valiant effort to look otherwise, but Noctis can see through it, mostly because they look like he and Prompto did this time last year. Tired, a little strung on caffeine, and looking for something to do to pull them through until the sun comes up.

Eventually, they wind up retiring before Noctis and Prompto. Ignis leaves first because he needs to “organize something,” which he says with a brief but pointed look at Gladio, and Gladio’s phone starts ringing shortly after. He takes one look at it and then wanders away mumbling about “the unsleeping, never mind immortal.” They both say they’ll see Noctis and Prompto back in their quarters, but when Noctis inches the door open later on, it’s to find that they both gave up the ghost at some point.

Prompto snickers a bit before shimmying out of his jeans and into sleep clothes. He climbs into the bunk above a sleeping Ignis and Noctis means to follow him--to his own bunk to sleep because the mattresses are too narrow for two bodies, sadly--but he hesitates in the middle of the room for a moment, looking around it in the dim light of his and Prompto’s phone screens.

They didn’t have a team last year. They’ve worked in teams since then, but never for longer than a day or two. But here it is. For the next week--and the foreseeable future beyond--this is his team. Every one of them a capable hunter, and stubborn as hell besides.

“Noct?” Prompto whispers from his bunk. “Something wrong?”

Noctis shakes his head. He’s aching, sure, but it’s the sting of sparring that won’t last after he wakes up. No.

It’s just that Gladio has a scar on his face, a long, painful looking one that miraculously left his eye unscathed, and Noctis is looking at it long enough now to wonder where he could have gotten it if he’s spent most of his life in the Crown City, training somewhere behind the walls. He was supposed to be guarding Noctis, but he’s been doing something else instead and still got injured for it.

It’s just that Ignis’ glasses are folded up next to his pillow with his phone, and his hair has fallen out of its gel, and his features don’t bear the weight of someone much older than he is when he’s asleep. He actually looks like a man not even two years older than Noctis.

It’s that Noctis knows that at all--

“Just tired,” Noctis murmurs before climbing up to his bunk. “Couldn’t remember if I’d forgotten something or not, but it’s fine.”

“Like the stove? Little late for that one,” Prompto jokes quietly.

Noctis laughs under his breath as he settles in to sleep and it turns into a yawn. “Nah, it’s fine. I think we’re ready. Good mornin’.”

Prompto’s response comes after the darkness of sleep has already started to pull Noctis down, his whisper muffled by the dimness of unconsciousness. “G’mornin’.”

\--

In the dream, there is nothing. There is no light, no forest to entangle it, no path to walk. Different from the nothingness he vaguely recalls, and worse. He is untethered in the darkness, but also not. It prods at him, pressing in on his chest, his back, along his arms and fingers. He tries to pull himself free of the shapeless grip, but nothing happens. He tries to call out-- _what do you want from me!_ \--but his voice travels nowhere.

The darkness presses in tighter, the pressure enveloping him completely like a shroud--like a blanket. He tries again to extricate himself, but the harder he tries, the more exhausted he grows.

The darkness sighs. He tries to find the source of the sound, but there is nothing around him. His limbs are so heavy now that he can barely turn his head to try harder.

And then, like like a web of strings pulled taut being sliced, the darkness snaps, recoils, leaves him to freefall, still sightless.

“How curious,” says the voice in the dark, deep, quiet, and unfamiliar. It echoes around him. Again, and again.

But he is so tired now that he cannot ask why.

\--

The sun is setting soon.

Even indoors, where the sky isn’t visible, and without looking at his phone, Gladio knows the sun is setting soon. The air is thick with the charge of anticipation and restlessness. Some hunters have already left the garrison.

He hasn’t, yet, despite being full of anticipation and restlessness. Ignis is triple checking that they have everything ready--weapons, check, obviously, but what about protection and curatives? Their Crownsguard attire is suitable with the quiet enchantments placed on them that make them as sturdy as any hunter’s gear, but they have to make a couple of adjustments so that they can carry the appropriate amount of supplies, and then a little extra.

Ignis has done thorough research, but they’ve still never fought daemons before. Never intended to spend a whole night provoking the beasts, let alone seven. Gladio is confident in their skills and their survivability, but the fact remains that when the sun goes down, they’ll be tested on how well they can keep their heads above the water, on whether or not they’re on par with the Glaives, who fight outside the wall against Imperial soldiers and daemons every day.

Noctis and Prompto, meanwhile, are deceptively nonchalant about it all. Prompto does a series of stretches specifically to loosen up his scarred knee before bracing it again, and then they help each other get ready, checking that their weapons and armour are in order, that they have a few first aid supplies on hand. They each go a step further after that--Prompto has a supply of flares stashed in a pouch on his belt along with his spare ammunition, and Noctis has several small, opaque bags and empty vials, a few of which he hands to Ignis.

They’re hunters; they’ve fought daemons before. Gladio supposes they’ve earned the right to go through the motions like they’re checking items off a grocery store list.

When they’re done, Prompto gives Noctis a look over and says, “You look badass, babe. C’mere a sec.”

Noctis is already leaning in for a kiss, chaste and brief, although Prompto clearly wants a little more. Gladio is about to turn his attention elsewhere because he has some class, but then, through the walls of their quarters, a voice booms across the intercoms.

Dave has been speaking to the town periodically through them, warning everyone away from the hunting grounds. Hell, to just stay home and don’t come out until the sun is up. This time, his message is for the hunters.

“The night we’ve been preparing for is nearly here,” he says, his gruff voice muffled slightly by static and walls, but not nearly enough to render him inaudible. “If you’re here participating, showin’ your strength and your skill, then I reckon you should finish your preparations soon. The time is now 7:30 and the sun sets in just under half an hour. Best find your starting places quickly, or lose out.”

When Dave’s voice fades to an echo, then nothing, Noctis shares a nod with Prompto and then stands before the group with his hands on his hips. At full height, shoulders back, eyes keen, he looks like someone Gladio can follow into battle.

“Right, then,” he says decisively. “Is everyone ready to go?”

Prompto immediately declares himself ready and Ignis follows him. Gladio runs through his mental checklist one last time--sword and shield, at the tips of his fingers; curatives and water, check; mission, clear as day.

He’d spoken with Cor the Immortal the night before in a short but serious call. Gladio had known that he’d been made aware of their situation after the last report Ignis had penned in Lestallum, after they’d found clear hope that things were proceeding well, but he hadn’t been expecting a call. In retrospect, it was inevitable. They’re taking a risk, no matter how confident Noctis is, and if worst comes to worst, if they wind up needing some kind of Astral-sent aid, they’ll be getting it from Cor.

“According to Ignis, this festival is starting tomorrow night,” Cor had said in lieu of a greeting, hitting the ground running. “I trust you two know what you’re doing?”

Gladio had gone from tired to alert in the time it took to answer his phone, so his response was immediate. “Yes. We’ve got a plan--Ignis is getting another report ready now.”

“The situation’s changed?”

Yes, it had. Gladio had explained it to him--that they’d rendezvoused with Noctis again and that he’d agreed to a conditional return to Insomnia, part of which was his determination to run headlong into a daemon death trap. After that, though, their sights are set on Insomnia.

The sigh Cor had given in reply was nearly two-toned. Daemon death trap? Not a very pleasant idea. Prince Noctis finally coming home after sixteen years? The thought sends a shiver through Gladio’s hands while his chest squeezes tight, and he knows Cor is hoping for it as well.

“Six grant us this,” Cor murmured. Then, in a sharper tone that makes Gladio stand to in the quietness of the yard, under the slowly brightening sky, “Listen, Gladiolus. This is where you prove that you’re prepared to take on your duty. Whatever hell is coming to that town, you make sure His Highness makes it out alive.”

“Of course, sir.”

It was unspoken that Gladio will do it at all costs. Gladio had known it then and he knows it now.

He just hopes that the cost won’t be high, and tells Noctis that he’s ready.

Noctis looks at them all in turn and then nods.

“Let’s get out of here, then.”

They aren’t the only ones leaving the barracks, spurred on by Dave’s message. Other hunters file out around them, some in groups, some alone. Most are in good spirits, laughing and cheering, their voices floating up past the lights to the darkening sky. The sun is still up, but only just. It dips lower every moment as Noctis leads them south to the intersection of Virens and Crest.

Halfway there, they hear Dave’s voice again.

“The festival begins soon. Make sure you’re ready. If you don’t have the strength to see this through, there’s no shame in it. We’re not proving how willing we are to die. Get yourself to safety and fight another day.”

The southern district of Old Lestallum is a ghost town in one sense and lively in another when they arrive. The sun has dipped low enough that Gladio can’t see it anymore between any of the buildings, but he knows it still lingers somewhere on the horizon, its light still draining from the sky and giving all the boarded doors and barred windows an eerie quality. Virens Street and Crest Avenue are both wide, fit to have traffic moving in either direction and to have cars parked at the curb, but there isn’t a single car here now. No one is in any of the buildings surrounding them.

Dotted near the alleys and corners, between the small trees lining the streets, however, are other hunters. They’re friendly with each other, their voices carrying easily down the otherwise empty streets as they call to familiar faces, but they all maintain a distance. They’re competing, after all.

Noctis counts on his fingers a list of what they’re likely to encounter once it’s dark as they wait near a corner on the western side of the intersection. At first, small, common daemons like imps and goblins will probably pop up because they’re tricksters and prone to feeling a little adventurous, to ignoring the fact that they’re leaping into a trap. Then, as the darkness lingers and other daemons in the area realize what’s happening, their numbers will increase along with their challenges.

And then, over the week, they just keep coming, and somehow the town makes it out okay in the end. That’s something Gladio is looking forward to see--the people out here are tough as hell, that’s for sure.

The sun sets, taking the last drops of light in the sky with it. All that remains are the streetlamps and the floodlights on the outskirts of town.

“Not long, now,” Noctis says quietly, almost murmuring. The other hunters have quieted down, too.

Dave’s voice comes again.

“The sun has set. Night is coming. Hunters, you’ve gathered here from every corner of Lucis to fight and compete and to protect our home when no one else drew the sword.”

The memory of the first time Noctis had explained the festival surfaces suddenly--the Imperials were in control, but didn’t do shit to protect anyone. They aren’t in control anymore, but did anyone in the Crown City step up in their place? Gladio’s pretty sure he would have heard of this entire event before in that case.

“On these seven nights, you’ll prove your strength, your skills, your resolve. You’ll deal a massive blow to the daemons that terrorize the people who can’t fight them back. You’ll keep the people around us safe even when the light comes back.”

Lenesque, that old woman raising herds of garula in the northern grasslands, probably couldn’t fight a daemon if she tried. She’d called on hunters because she couldn't deal with daemons halfway across the kingdom from her.

“Good luck, hunters. Godspeed, defenders in the night. And now, _let the Festival of the Hunt begin_.”

His voice fades over the silent streets. For a moment, there’s nothing more--then, bells begin to ring. They ring at the slow pace of a clocktower, deep and booming, and Gladio feels the vibrations of every ring in his bones.

The darkness begins in the south, sweeping north to meet them steadily. Gladio watches it come. They all do, arming themselves as the sweep comes toward them. The floodlights go out first, and then, one by one, the streetlamps go dark, plunging the road into shadow.

Gladio doesn’t realize that the darkness isn’t complete until it washes over the intersection and then abates. Dim, orange lights affixed to the faces of buildings and in the alleys take the place of the stark whites from just a moment ago. The colour keys up the already tense atmosphere around them--they’re not nearly as bright and the shadows they provide bleed into each other, leaving the middle of the road dark. They’re only here so that the hunters can see where they’re going in the coming chaos.

Prompto shifts next to the tree he’s chosen to linger near. Gladio expects to look and see unease, but Prompto is only fixing his goggles over his eyes. He gives Gladio a thumbs up with the hand that isn’t curled around his pistol. Night vision. Right.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Noctis warns them all. “Ears, too. When it comes to the annoying ones, you’ll probably hear them first.”

“Listen for their stupid little laughs,” Prompto adds.

Gladio listens, lingering near Noctis’ left side as he watches the nearby alleys. For a while, the minutes tick by but there’s nothing but the wind blowing past his ear.

Then, somewhere down the other end of Virens and around a corner, they hear someone shout, “ _Got it!_ ” and the unmistakable sounds of a fight beginning. Something shrieks, high-pitched and discordant, and it’s one of the most Six-damned sounds that Gladio has ever heard.

Prompto responds to it with a wild cut grin, something just edging on frantic. “Here we go, guys!”

Gladio looks to Ignis, who exchanges a sharp nod with him. Time to roll.

They hear other hunters calling from streets nearby and the cool night air slowly fills with the sounds of battle. Their little corner stays quiet until Noctis ventures away from the sidewalk.

“C’mon, you little monsters,” he says like he's calling a dog. Prompto whistles to complete the picture. “Come and get us.”

“Stay close, Noctis,” Gladio warns, following him. Ignis moves, too, but he moves in a wide arc, circling Noctis’ right.

Noctis glances over his shoulder before pausing in the middle of the road and Gladio nearly thinks it’s because he’s heeding the warning, but then he sees the shifting mass of blackness in the intersection. He _hears_ it, too, as a thick, tar-like substance oozes out of the cracks in the road--out of nowhere--and spreads into dense pools of miasma.

“Daemons,” Gladio calls out, mostly out of instinct because he knows the others can see what’s happening, too. He steels himself, ready at Noctis’ side, as a small, gnarled hand bursts out of the liquid shadows, then more, followed by the ugly, twisted bodies of the daemons as they pull themselves into the intersection.

They’re hideous things--their necks don’t curve right and every finger looks broken, their skin is stained an unnatural blue like a bruise, and their faces, contorted in a grin full of sharp teeth that makes a parody of glee, are the worst of all.

Noctis raises his voice, “Got it!”

And then he steps aside, almost brushing against Gladio, and a gunshot rings out from behind them. The bullet whizzes past Noctis and nails a daemon in the chest before it can fully sort itself out, and the blood that sprays from its wound is as black as the poison it spawned from.

“Get fucked, goblin!” Prompto crows as Noctis leaps into action.

He doesn’t warp, but his lunge is almost as fast before he slashes at the goblin from hip to shoulder. It’s a sizeable wound that should put any creature on its ass, but even small daemons are made of tougher stuff, it seems. The thing just bounces back to its feet and screeches at them. Something red pulses in its chest, a glow showing through its wounds, and Noctis aims straight for it.

It all happens in the span of a few seconds, and then Gladio is raising his shield to fend off another goblin that tries to leap at Noctis, and things get a little more chaotic after that.

There are six of them, enough for each of them plus some extra trouble. They dart and hop around like every step is on hot coals, and they laugh like something deranged every time they take a swipe with their fists or their sharp little claws. Every part of them is, like Prompto had said, an annoyance at best.

Instinct claws at Gladio’s ribs, a base reaction drawn from the scariest childhood tales and the worst stories whispered by soldiers--daemons are fearsome creatures and are best left alone--but the rest of him is simmering with a fire that burns steadily brighter as the first goblin gives in and crumples. There’s nowhere to run and he doesn’t _want_ to. They invited this-- _he_ invited it--and they’re here to prove themselves.

Noctis dives after the dead goblin as soon as it goes down.

“Watch my back while I nab this,” he calls as he chops one of the goblin’s claws off.

Who he’s talking to isn’t clear, but between the three of his teammates, it doesn’t much matter. Gladio bashes his shield against another that tries to flank him and it’s just more kindling for the fire in his veins.

If the goblins are at all deterred by watching one of their numbers literally get cut to pieces, they don’t show it. They keep skittering around, clawing against Gladio’s sword, grasping at his clothes, punching with sharp knuckles that he knows are going to leave dark bruises. One manages to come around his back and yank on his belt before Ignis materializes behind it and brings one dagger down in a deadly arc through its wrist, another through its neck.

“The little bastards are trying to steal from you,” he says between measured breaths. “We’d best keep an eye on our belongings while they’re around.”

“Grab a claw or something while you’re over there,” Prompto calls from a distance. “Quick, before it’s gone!”

Gladio glances down to see what he means and finds the remains of the goblin beginning to turn to nothing but ooze and miasma, the decomposition starting from its rotted core of a heart and spreading outward. Like Noctis had done, Ignis quickly kneels down and slices a claw away, isolating it from further damage. Then he seals it up in one of the small, black bags that Noctis had handed him.

Two goblin claws. Two points. It’s almost easy, especially as the goblins’ numbers keep dwindling. Gladio doesn’t allow himself to get complacent, though. Bigger things are coming, things that are worthy of more than a swing or two with his greatsword.

He’s proven right when, while there are still three goblins scurrying in the road, Ignis turns in a quick-footed dodge and then does a double take. After a split second of scrutiny toward the shadows down the street, he calls out, “We’ve got more company!” and then dances away from a spark of grim purple light.

“I’ll back you up,” Prompto responds quickly. “Let Noct and Gladio handle the rest of those.”

The newcomers, when Gladio spots them advancing on Prompto and engaging with Ignis, are actually smaller than the goblins. But the imps have tails and wicked claws and they _float_ \--rather, they cling to large golden crescents that hover over the ground and gleam dangerously in the orange lamps and the violet sparks. There are three of them and, judging by the thin wails they let out when Prompto takes shots at them, they like guns even less than the goblins do.

Gladio doesn’t let them distract him from the remaining goblins for long. One makes a flying tackle toward Noctis, but he leaps away and then puts even more distance between them. Gladio is about to scold him for suddenly breaking their small formation--without a word of _warning_ , at that--when he’s suddenly back again in a shower of white and blue and a sharp ring of magic. The dagger through the goblin’s chest combined with the inertia of a warp-strike is enough to topple it for good.

“Warn me next time,” Gladio bites out as he fends off the other goblins while Noctis claims another piece of loot. “If you run off on your own it’s gonna be harder for me to do anything if you get surrounded.”

He’s more familiar with Noctis’ fighting style now--like a dance not entirely dissimilar to Ignis’, but heavier, broader, more impulsive--and he can change tactics on the fly when he needs to, but that all works better when the change isn’t because he happens to notice a pocket of suddenly empty space next to him. He’s not Prompto; he doesn’t know all of Noctis’ habits and tells yet.

“It’s fine,” Noctis says quickly before he gets back in the fray. There’s a hard edge to his voice, to the narrowing of his eyes--not unlike the moment the night before when he’d tried to inconspicuously glare daggers through the map--and Gladio almost sighs at his glib attitude.

He doesn’t, though, if only just. It’s fine, Gladio repeats to himself. No--it’s tolerable. This isn’t a one-off thing. They’re fighting together for real this time and they will again. They _will_ work on the concept of actual teamwork.

There’s just no time to dig into it now. Old Lestallum is coming alive in the night again with the sounds of gunfire, of hunters shouting, of daemons screaming. The streets are alight with orange auxiliary lamps and flickering daemonic magic and, after what is unmistakably an _explosion--_ what in the _hell--_ fire.

The Festival of the Hunt is in full swing, they’re knee deep in daemons, and Gladio feels a little like he’s been tossed into the deep end. Ignis has blood running down his cheek from a laceration on his brow and Prompto nearly gets cornered before Noctis warps to his side, and Gladio is starting to feel the effects of being repeatedly punched by something that is obnoxiously strong for all that it only comes up to his hip, and the night is still young.

But he’s on a mission--and _damn_ if it doesn’t make his blood sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This road trip now has 15% more bonding, lore, and action :0
> 
> I'm so excited to finally be writing the festival :D This arc of the story is, by far, the most fleshed out and also my favourite. This chapter was also originally intended to be even longer than it is now! But I decided to leave the remaining scene out of it and fit it in with all the funky fun going on in the next chapter. You can only make four bros do so much kinda-sorta bonding in one go, it seems.
> 
> Thank you SO much for all the comments last chapter! As we've progressed into this arc, all the responses to this fic have been so amazing, and I hope the coming chapters live up to expectations :D


	12. the third night

Multiple explosions go off on that first night. Bombs, as it turns out, are peculiar in that they’ll detonate themselves if one doesn’t pay enough attention to them like some self-destructive child throwing a tantrum. The damage they cause to their surroundings is surprisingly limited, provided the nearby windows are well protected against the flying shards of the bomb cores.

Noctis demonstrates how to store the fragments left behind after they take out a small group. They’re different than a goblin’s claw or an imp’s tail; they need to be kept in small glass vials so that oxygen is limited around them and there isn’t anything to cause friction, thereby lowering the chance that they’ll reignite and spawn another bomb.

Ignis had read stories of bomb fragments reigniting after being left too close to a heat source or too much open air and wondered at how they could do so until he’d handled a fragment himself the first time. Burned, blackened and dead, the fragment still exuded an almost burning level of heat and didn’t truly cool for some time. A strange thing, daemonic magic.

It tingles against Ignis’ bare skin if it so much as brushes by him, after he dodges an attack or handles any remains. He feels it with his near remote connection to the Crystal through King Regis’ magic, an entity so different from the Crystal that it sends a shiver of discomfort through his ribs, a whisper of something _wrong_.

Noctis, whose own connection to the Crystal is arguably several times stronger than Ignis’, doesn’t seem affected by it in the least. He uses warp-strikes when the need arises and his elemancy sparingly, but Ignis is almost certain that’s due to his uncertainty with his control overall. He takes the occasional injury but doesn’t react any differently than he did to being clawed by a voretooth. Ignis can’t think of a simple way to broach the subject while they’re so busy, so he tries not to linger on it.

Perhaps Noctis is simply used to it, his experience as a hunter shining through.

It shines through in other places, too--in his willingness to face a daemon dead on; in his proficiency in patching up the small wounds that aren’t quite worth a potion; in his ability to stay on his feet and fight as the hours drag on. His pride is well-earned from Ignis’ perspective.

At the end of the first night, Ignis’ body is aching, muscles growing weary and bones heavy. Staying alert all through the night, he can handle, but to spend it all _fighting_ is exhausting. Gladio is less affected with his more advanced training, Noctis and Prompto even less so, but still. A Crown City upbringing hadn’t prepared him for the Festival of the Hunt. It feels like an eternity passes in one night, like another will pass before the daemons will stop spawning, stop making their unearthly sounds, and allow them to rest.

But then, he turns away from the last bubbling remains of a flan while Noctis scoops its eye into a vial, and finds Prompto tugging his goggles away from his eyes, which are somewhat bloodshot as he tips his face upward. Ignis looks up past a plume of smoke and finds the sky brightening by the moment, the orange auxiliary lights flickering off, the shadows in the streets dimming.

Dawn has arrived, finally.

A sound fills the air when all but the last stars have winked out, and it takes the relief flooding Ignis’ veins and turns it to ice. It’s a horrific, shrill sound that curls around his spine and makes his hair stand on end. It’s the sound of discordant wailing coming from almost every direction, vibrating terribly through the air--the sound of the daemons that haven’t yet escaped with the night burning in the morning light.

Noctis grimaces and buries one of his ears in a hunched shoulder as he wipes oily muck off his sword. He quickly surveys the street and the bank of the river Wennath nearby, but the nearest daemon is no threat to them now. A hobgoblin withers and curls in on itself as its skin burns, sloughs off its bones and melts away into nothing before their eyes.

“That’s fucking gross,” Gladio says as the terrible sound begins to fade. His face is the picture of disgust as he looks down on the dark smear left behind on the road.

Ignis mirrors his revulsion. Prompto takes a quick drink from his water bottle and pointedly does not look at the rapid decay happening around them.

“That’s daemons for you,” Noctis says with mild apathy. It looks like he means to continue, but a deep yawn cuts him off, and he rubs at his tired eyes instead.

Prompto, on the other hand, has much more energy than is right for the time of day and their recent activity. He spreads his arms out wide and cheers to the sky, “Good morning, fellas! We’re _alive_ \--let’s celebrate by eating something dead!”

Ignis is listening to the reverberating sentiments from up the street when he feels Gladio’s hand come down on his shoulder.

“Can’t believe he still has energy,” Gladio says, shaking his head as his hand slips away. He says it with a weary sort of awe that lingers as he continues, “We did it, though. We spent that whole night fighting daemons.”

Not the _entire_ night. They’d rested several times, stopped to quickly patch up wounds and swallow some food when it seemed safe enough. But close enough. There had been more fighting than their training had ever prepared them for--and they still have to make it back to the garrison before allowing themselves to truly rest.

Ignis allows the daggers in his hands to fall into nothing and closes his eyes for a few seconds. The very thought feels as exhausting as all the hours before.

Another hand on his other shoulder breaks Ignis from his tired thought of silent despair. Smaller, lighter, barely there at all and gone again when Ignis opens his eyes. Noctis’ smile is careful, tilted from one side of his lips, but celebratory all the same.  

“Don’t fall asleep just yet,” he says quietly. “You guys did pretty good here.”

“I have no intention of sleeping yet,” Ignis assures him. He’d only needed to rest his eyes a moment, although he’s grateful for the concern.

Prompto appears as if from nowhere with an arm slung across Noctis’ shoulders. They stagger, but don’t quite lose their balance as he exclaims, “Okay, but we were totally awesome! Things really are looking up this time.”

Ignis blinks, making the slow connection from Prompto’s statement to his meaning. Noctis had been confident in his knowledge, so Ignis had assumed that he and Prompto had participated in all this at least once before, and his hunch had been confirmed the night before with the old but still relevant map. Prompto has provided yet more clues.

“I take it you didn’t do quite so well last year?” Ignis asks.

Noctis expression shutters noticeably, lips pressing tight before his features smooth out again. Prompto makes a vague sound behind grit teeth.

“Well, it coulda gone a lot better,” he says. “But live and learn, right? We’ve got way more experience now.”

“And us,” Gladio reminds him, somewhat smug.

Prompto nods quickly. “And you guys.”

“Definitely a bonus,” Noctis says. He winds one arm around Prompto’s waist and uses it to nudge him into moving. “Let’s get going. We’re out of potions and Gladio’s still got that giant gash.”

“I’m hungry, too,” Prompto adds.

“It’s not that big,” Gladio says like an afterthought as he follows the pair.

Ignis falls in at his side, giving the injury on Gladio’s right shoulder a discreet lookover as he goes. It isn’t particularly large or deep and they did their best to clean it, but the vague shape of a daemon’s claw is still bleeding sluggishly. Left alone for too long and it might make hefting a greatsword more troublesome come nightfall once again.

They’re lucky, all things considered, that the gash is the worst injury that they have to walk back with. One after another, an endless parade of some of the most dangerous creatures to walk Eos, and they’re all standing at dawn. Tired and very, very dirty and sweaty, but standing all the same.

Noctis is arguably the best off; his clothes and face are sullied by streaks of dust and splotches of drying blood, but he’d sustained no injuries that haven’t already been taken care of by the potions in their first aid kits. He walks with an awkward gait sometimes, but it’s out of fatigue more than anything.

Prompto has a long but shallow cut near his shoulder, mostly healed already by a potion taken for something else, but nowhere else are his clothes stained red. So, his limp is caused by either a sprain or the scar on his knee that Ignis has only heard of from Gladio. A wicked scar, he’d said--meaning _ugly_ more than _cool_ \--and one that is likely protesting against all the exertion despite Prompto’s high spirits.

Gladio is wearing daemon blood almost like a second skin, courtesy of his steadfast protection of their group and the spray of blood rushing from every swing of his sword. It’s smeared across his jacket and body after all the attempts to keep it out of any open wounds, covering his tattoos and giving his clothes an oily sheen--until he walks into the dim light of morning and, like the daemon remains scattered around them, the blood begins to fizzle and dissipate into thin black miasma.

“Six,” Gladio breathes as he watches a smudge fade away from the back of his hand. “Remind me to bring a towel next time. Doesn’t hurt or anything, but it’s still weird as hell.”

That’s daemons for you, Ignis’ mind echoes.

He isn’t in terrible shape himself. Small lacerations dot his hands and face, but they’re barely worth a potion. The bruises are worse. He has what’s sure to be one large one spanning half his back after being sent flying by the deceptively strong slap of a flan, and various others scattered over his limbs from the agile fists of a hobgoblin. His only discomfort beyond that is a persistent itch on one side of his face because some dry blood still lingers there.

There’s a trip to the infirmary to be had, then to somewhere they can handle laundry. But perhaps food should come before the effort of cleaning and darning laundry. Food and sleep. And a _bath_. Infirmary, _bath_ , food…

It takes less than half an hour to return to the garrison. They’d wound up closer to it than when they’d started, and so they trudge up Fluenta Promenade alongside the river until they reach the base again. Hunters filter through the gates in various states of health; some only lightly injured while some are brought in by a small number of drivers picking up the heavily wounded. There’s a low din all around them, the air of quiet success and camaraderie.

The infirmary is, as expected, very busy. Ignis is pleased to see that there’s no shortage of first aid supplies, though, thanks in part to their efforts in the Taelpar region. Thankfully, they only need to wait to be given supplies they need, and they can see to their own wounds while those who can’t are cared for.

After, Noctis disappears with their haul of daemon claws and eyes and bones to have them isolated in a dark sublevel of the garrison. Ignis doesn’t see him again until after he’s stood under the lukewarm spray of a shower and carefully scrubbed the blood and grime off his skin, still faintly bruised after a round of curatives.   

Their quarters are silent except for the muffled sounds of nearby hunters and Noctis’ shuffling as he finally tugs his armour off and stows his weapons away. He looks over his shoulder as Ignis enters, nods silently in greeting, and then continues undressing. The skin he reveals is stained with dust and old blood and dotted with a few bruises, but is otherwise unmarred except for a few older scars.

“The others?” Noctis asks as Ignis contemplates his own dirtied fatigues.

“Mess hall,” Ignis replies. Prompto had cleaned up quickly and disappeared and Gladio had still been washing up when Ignis left, but Ignis knows where he’ll go after. He’s hungry, too, but it’s a dull sensation that only creeps up when he thinks on it for more than a few seconds.

“You gonna go?”

Would he like Ignis to? The flatness of his tone could suggest it. Ignis shakes his head once nevertheless.

“I’ll eat when I wake up, I think.”

Noctis chuckles, softly and under his breath. “Yeah, I’m beat, too. Lucky that no one can give me the business about sleeping all day now.” He grunts as he tugs a towel and some clean clothes out of his locker. “Just one last thing, though, then sleep.”

“I may be asleep when you return,” Ignis says, folding his Crownsguard fatigues neatly and closing them in his locker before sinking to the edge of his bunk. Food, laundry, they can both wait. He’ll likely wake up in the afternoon and have plenty of time to prepare again.

“Good,” Noctis replies. “You should get as much as you can. It’s not gonna be any easier tomorrow… Uh, tonight. The next--you know what I mean.”

Ignis nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yes. I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Right. Good morning, good night. Whichever.”

Noctis folds his towel and clothing over one arm and makes for the door, and then pauses with his hand on the doorknob. For a split second, it’s as if he’d forgotten something, but then he lingers. He turns himself toward Ignis partially, staring first at the floor, then Ignis. Ignis waits, curious, until Noctis speaks again.

“Hey, uh, listen,” he says awkwardly. “Thanks for coming out here--you and Gladio. You didn’t have to. Before I made it a condition, I mean.” He shakes his head, gaining traction more traction. “Actually, after that, too. You could have waited in Lestallum before and you could have said no earlier.”

On the contrary, Ignis wants to tell him, he could not have. Gladio could have, perhaps. He is occasionally single-minded enough to have taken less diplomatic routes. But how could they have said otherwise when Noctis presented his conditions? How else could they ensure his safety and gain his trust?

Noctis doesn’t answer these unspoken questions. He continues, “But you showed up anyway and helped out and… that means a lot.”

“I would not have refused,” Ignis says finally, hardly able to get the words out quick enough. “I don’t want to force you to do this. That’s not why I’m here.”

“I got that. It’s more than that, though.” Noctis’ hand slips from the door to the back of his neck. Then, he gestures to the room around them before settling his fingers around his hip. “This is a hunters’ tradition. A big ol’ gamble ‘cause people needed help around here but everyone else was so busy with the war that they wouldn’t spare anybody. You and Gladio aren’t really hunters. You could have said no.”

Ignis shakes his head. “But we’re Lucian. We’re dedicated to helping our own.” Even though he’s never left Insomnia before now, never waged war with something other than pen and tongue.

“That’s what I mean,” Noctis says hastily. He sighs quietly. “Sometimes… it feels like no one’s really listening. Like they don’t care about what happens out here anymore. It just--you guys were willing to listen and be here. It means a lot, even if no one else knows where you’re from. So, thanks.”

So heavily fatigued in the moment, Ignis can’t find the proper way to explain that there _are_ people listening, that the King _does_ care about what happens in the outlands of Lucis. But the kingdom is penned in from every side, the shadow of Niflheim looming darker while the resources to reach out and truly reclaim what Lucis has lost in the war dwindle each year, and there is no simple way to explain it, to justify the silence outside the Wall, the people left behind. Instead of trying, he nods somewhat numbly.

“The honour is mine,” he replies. Of fighting at Noctis’ side, of seeing the daemons back from whence they came, the honour is all his. He means to say so, but Noctis reaches for the door again and finally opens it.

“Get some sleep,” he says before yawning deeply. “You look like you’re about to leave your own body.”

Ignis feels like it, too. The mattress underneath him calls to him, more and more persistent with every passing moment. He slides his glasses off and sets them neatly folded next to his phone and pillow. When he looks up again, Noctis is still occupying the doorway.

“Morning,” he says, his voice soft as the faint blur of his body.

“Good morning,” Ignis echoes, tickled somewhat by the absurdity of the greeting turned on its head.

Noctis drifts into the hall, letting the door swing shut behind him with a thud and a heavy click. Alone with the silence, Ignis closes his eyes. After only a few seconds, it becomes difficult to open them again, so he gives in at last and settles under the thin blanket on his bunk. Be it from the exhaustion or the warmth of Noctis’ gratitude, sleep claims him in seconds.

 

\--

 

When he wakes the first time, there is a confusing amalgamation of quiet noises--rustling and shuffling; low, unintelligible voices. A door opens and closes and the room falls silent again. Ignis, not quite aware, falls back to sleep.

When he wakes again, fully this time, the room is still silent but for a faint, tinny noise and a rhythmic _swish, swish_. Ignis blinks a few times, eyes opening more with every pass, and finds the room brightly lit. He squints at the overhead light, then at the bunks opposite his own. Gladio’s is empty, but Noctis is sitting on his with one leg swinging loosely over the edge.

His eyes are focused on his lap, where he has what looks like a pair of pants in one hand and a threaded needle in the other. There lies the source of the _swish, swish_ as he tugs the thread through the sturdy fabric of the pants. He’s wearing earbuds, too, which are playing music loud enough for Ignis to hear.

Ignis has some mending to do as well, and that’s the thought that drives him to pick up his glasses and put them on before sitting up. Noctis glances over at the movement and pulls the earbuds out.

“Afternoon,” he says, answering part of Ignis’ question of what time it is.   

Ignis checks his phone and finds that it’s half past two in the afternoon. A fine time to start the day when one ended the previous day in the early morning. A to-do list is already taking form, too, no longer hampered by his desperate need for sleep. At some point before tonight, he needs to mend the tears in his and Gladio’s clothing--perhaps he’ll do it sooner rather than later--but before that, he should see to the gnawing sensation in his gut

“Prompto and Gladio are raiding the kitchen,” Noctis says as if sensing Ignis’ thoughts. “They didn’t leave that long ago if you wanna catch up.”

Ignis sits up and very nearly stands up to dress properly before he pauses. “Have you eaten?”

Noctis shrugs, which is not really a proper answer to the question. “I was up earlier,” he explains, yawning as if to prove his point. “I just told Prompto to bring something back for me.”

Ignis hums and slips out of bed. He dresses, remakes the bed, and watches for a few seconds as Noctis finishes up with the pants, his handiwork leaving behind a slightly uneven but altogether clean stitch down the lower half of the leg. He drops the pants onto a small pile next to him and moves on to a shirt, then. A tank top that Prompto had been wearing the day before.

Noctis catches Ignis watching and wiggles the needle in his hand a little with a conspiratorial smile. “Yeah, sometimes it’s better to not trust Prompto with sharp things in general.”

Ignis nods carefully as Noctis cuts a length of dark thread. “Do you need any assistance?”

Noctis shakes his head. “I don’t have anything left. Your stuff probably needs more work than mine.”

It doesn’t, not really. Without the enchantment woven into his uniform, he’d probably have lost a sleeve last night, but as things are, there are only a few tears to patch up. Ignis picks through the lockers anyway and scrutinizes his and Gladio’s fatigues. They’re still dirty, and the inky stains of daemon blood have taken on a strange gone and there again quality--as if something _crusty_ could also act like a _sheen_. If he were to take the laundry outside, the remaining blood might still dissipate.

Ignis is tempted to do just that after breakfast. The smell certainly warrants it.

He looks toward Noctis’ bunk again, where Noctis is quietly making short work of the tear in Prompto’s shirt, his fingers moving with practiced ease. Considering his fighting style--up close and personal with no shield--or Shield--to speak of, Ignis is sure he’s had plenty of opportunities to learn how to do so lest he ends up fighting in ratty clothes and spending all his hard earned money on new wardrobes. This week, especially, he’ll likely be doing a lot of mending.

“May I ask you something?” Ignis asks, intent on taking advantage of the moment of privacy before it’s gone. Rare are the moments where Noctis and Prompto are separate, so far.

“Sure,” Noctis replies, his eyes not straying from his work.

“You’ve been a hunter for some time now, yes?”

Noctis pauses and stares at the wall through his bangs. After a few seconds of thought, he returns to sewing and answers, “Almost a couple years now, yeah. Why?”

“Why did you choose this line of work? Was it because of your magic?”

Noctis stops again, this time to look down at Ignis, a faint crease between his brows as he considers the question. Ignis almost wonders if he’s suddenly suspicious of something, but then his expression smooths out again and he asks, “I guess ‘bills’ isn’t the answer you’re looking for?”

A valid reason to be sure, but of all the professions to find Noctis in...

“Not as such, although I imagine it pays somewhat well.”

“Eh, debatable. But I picked it anyway ‘cause my old man was one. I knew how hard he worked, and why, and I knew it was something I could do, too.” Noctis makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a huff. “I mean, I can spit out fireballs. Not a lot of job descriptions call for that.”

“A few do,” Ignis muses, thinking of Glaives flinging themselves through the air during training, and of having the opportunity to learn the intricacies of magic flasks before his departure.

That pulls a full chuckle from Noctis. “There’s no way that I’d have been able to weasel my way into the Crown City for something there,” he says. “Prompto would have figured it out by now.”

Ignis holds back a slight grimace. Trust is in short supply sometimes, especially where the search for suitable candidates for the Kingsglaive is concerned.

Even so, Noctis isn’t a simple civilian with an aptitude for magic.

“On the contrary,” Ignis says, “had you approached the city and claimed to be able to use magic, I imagine you would have been taken into custody immediately. No _weaselling_ required.”

Noctis hums thoughtfully. “Right, the royalty thing. I never thought about going there for work, though, even if the Kingsglaive would have accepted me.”

Ignis tilts his head, puzzled. “Why is that?”

“Because I know where they’d put me,” Noctis answers simply. He then shakes his head and waves his hands quickly as if to erase what he’d just said. “Well--hypothetically speaking, if I went there as just me, none of this royal stuff, I know what would happen. I’d rather be out here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow,” Ignis says, although he thinks he really does.

Continued denial aside, Noctis loves his home dearly, but becoming a Glaive would remove any guarantee of being able to remain near it for any long period of time. The duties of a hunter aren’t so different from Ignis’ standpoint--on the fringes of both pursuits, admittedly--but hunters are not beholden to anyone but themselves.

“Think about it,” Noctis says quietly. “We don’t see Glaives out here that often, remember?”

“The Kingsglaive go where they’re needed most,” Ignis reminds him. It seems a weak response all of a sudden when Noctis gives him a dry look as if to say, _there’s the answer_.

“And in the meantime, we’re out here,” Noctis continues. “Someone’s gotta hold down the fort around here, anyway. That answer your question?”

Ignis nods somewhat reluctantly. He’d expected Noctis answer and he almost wants to address the thinly veiled sourness of Noctis’ opinion on the Glaives, but pressing the topic would likely only string tension around them.

“Why’d you wanna know, anyway?” Noctis asks as he turns his attention back to the shirt in his lap to finish his mending.

“So that I might get to know you a little better,” Ignis replies candidly. Not that what he’s learned is necessarily new information, but the certainty, the crystal-clarity, that comes with Noctis’ answers is something of a reassurance. He holds his hands open at his sides. “Is there anything you’d like to know in return?”

Noctis doesn’t reply immediately. He inspects his handiwork first, squinting at the all but invisible line of black thread in black fabric, before carelessly balling the tank top up and leaving it on top of the pants and other stitched clothes. Then, he looks down toward Ignis again and it seems like he _does_ want to ask something. He even gets so far as to open his mouth, to take a breath, before a low but strong growl stops him.

Ignis takes a deep breath, tensing his core muscles, but the damage is done, the betrayal from his own stomach glaringly obvious.

“I think twenty questions can wait,” Noctis says dryly, lips curling upward slowly. “You should probably find something to eat before your stomach grows legs of its own.”

Ignis sighs internally and agrees sheepishly. “I suppose I should. There will be plenty of time for talk later.”

“Sure,” Noctis says through a short yawn. “Least you aren’t grillin’ me while also trying to beat me up with a sword.”

Ignis chuckles softly as he drifts toward the door. “I’ll let that be Gladio’s habit. Until later, Noctis.”

Noctis, eyes on his phone, waves tiredly over his shoulder. “See ya later, Specs.”

The door shuts behind Ignis and he quickly scans his surroundings for any sign of Prompto or Gladio on their way back from their food run, and only after he concludes that they’re not yet returning does he realize that Noctis hadn’t called him by his name.

 _Specs_ , Noctis said. Like before, in Taelpar, except now it's stuck.

He’s been given a nickname.

The concept isn’t unfamiliar by a long shot--Gladio calls him _Iggy_ all the time--but the moniker is a new one, and to hear it from Noctis is… warming. Uplifting, even. Ignis can’t help but smile every step to the mess hall, and again that night when he hears it once more.

 

\--

 

Ignis and Gladio are getting refills on their curative supplies as Prompto gets ready. It’s like muscle memory, tugging straps and armour into place, making sure his goggles are fitted properly, checking that the guns laid out on one of the lower bunks are clean and ready to go. He knows the game.

He’s still nervous about it, though, the jitters running up and down his spine every time he stands still for too long. They’re going to be fine, probably, and he knows that. They’ve done great the last two nights already--way ahead in points than they were last year, that’s for sure--and there’s no reason they shouldn’t do just as well tonight. Prompto _knows_ that.

He knows what will come after tonight, too. They’ve still got the rest of the week, still got more of the same game tomorrow night, and the night after. But they never made it past the third night last year, not after messing up so badly.

And here they are again, getting ready to march out on the third night. He’s got all his equipment ready to go with just a _little_ more spare ammo than he usually carries. Just in case. The daemons are always worse later on, anyway. He’s totally got this.

Ready as he’ll ever be, he turns to Noctis and stands with his hands on his hips. “How do I look?”

Noctis turns from his locker, still in the process of carefully securing the knife under his sleeve. He gives Prompto a quick lookover, then another, slower. Then he smiles and says, “Like you’re gonna kick daemon ass. How about me?”

Prompto takes an exaggerated pose of scrutiny. Noctis looks about the same as he usually does to hunt except for the shirt that his dog tags rest on under his vest, a lesser worn white shirt because a lucky bomb had made the black shirt he’d been wearing last night unwearable. He looks like business, like he’s done this a hundred times and could go out and kill lesser daemons just by glaring at them down his nose.

“ _Almost_ as good,” Prompto says at last, laughing as Noctis rolls his eyes. “You got everything?”

Nocts pats his pockets, first over his vest then his back pockets, then he grins and gives Prompto a thumbs up. “Yep. We’re ready.”

“Sick.” Prompto hurries to get his guns holstered and then beelines for his locker, where his camera sits within easy reach on the single shelf inside. “Let’s get a picture real quick.”

Noctis leans in close with his arms crossed, sturdy and warm next to Prompto. After the shutter clicks, Prompto turns the camera around towards them, and their faces, somewhat washed out by the bright white of the ceiling light, look way more confident than Prompto thought he’d be able to manage.

Because he _is_ confident, but… well, the jitters go where they may.

“You good?” Noctis asks, almost out of the blue if not for the softness in his voice, the quietness, and the way his arms are crossed tightly over his chest like his elbows are trying to grip his hands back.

Prompto takes a deep breath, all the better to push his shoulders back and stand tall as he nods. “Yeah, I’m good. We can do this. Are _you_ good?”

Noctis smiles again, a full grin barely contained. “I’m good. This time… I dunno, but I think we’re going places this year.”

“Or we’re at least making it to the end of the festival.”

“I’ll take that, too. Sets the bar low for us.”

Prompto laughs and rocks forward on his toes to plant a kiss on Noctis’ cheek. “I do what I can to make us look badass. Let’s rock and roll.”

They leave the hunters’ quarters together. Outside, the afternoon has passed into evening, and soon it’ll pass to twilight, to night. The sky itself is hidden behind thick cloud cover, so the change is all in the deepening tones of grey. Ignis and Gladio are in the yard, crossing it from the infirmary until they spot Prompto and Noctis coming toward them.

“Ah, excellent,” Ignis says just as they come into earshot. “We were just about to see if you were prepared yet.”

Prompto glances at Noctis before whipping up a finger gun, aiming it at Ignis. “Totally! We can get out there now if you guys are all done.”

Ignis nods then turns around halfway. “Well, then, after you.”

They go, all four of them. They take a walk along the river, a pretty and easy going stroll if not for the general atmosphere on the wind over the water. Prompto’s too keyed up to really appreciate it, even when he decides to snap a couple shots of a few other hunters near the bank.

They start near the river, too, simply because it’s an easy route to take to get a little farther from the garrison than they were the nights before, to where the buildings are spaced out much more than along the commercial streets.

“You gonna remember what I told you last night?” Gladio asks Noctis as they come to a stop near a warehouse.

“Shot calling, got it,” Noctis says, just on the edge of careless even though Gladio might have tried to beat the concept into him during a sparring match. He isn’t looking at Gladio when he says it, so he isn’t privy to the withering look Gladio gives him in response.

“Shot calling and holding your chocobos for two hot seconds,” he says in a no-nonsense tone. “I can’t tell if I should be awed by your survivability or astounded by your recklessness.”

“Is it recklessness if the plan works out?” Noctis asks, toeing the line of playfulness.

“Yes,” Gladio deadpans. “A pack of skeletons almost had you last night. _Skeletons_.”

“But they didn’t,” Noctis reminds him.

“But they _could_ have.”

But they didn’t, because Prompto doesn’t need reminding to keep an eye on Noctis’ back, and Noctis had blinked away before anything could happen, and then Gladio had turned the daemons into a pile of broken bones with his shield. But there had been a few seconds where Prompto’s heart had beat just a little harder.

“I get it,” Noctis says, relenting.

Gladio must catch the edge in Noctis’ voice, the one that gives away that he really is paying attention, because the look fades away quickly and he settles for looming on the street corner as the sky gradually darkens.

Tonight, they can’t see the floodlights playing off the river, their light pollution hovering over the skyline. They’re still lit on the north end of town, but those around the festival grounds had shut off on the first night and hadn’t come back on. Neither had the street lamps. Instead, the darkness falls heavily under the clouds until the auxiliary lights flicker on, and the streets are eerie and haunted again.

Prompto has his goggles on, the world around him gone unnaturally green and bright, when their first customer shows its face--or its skull, seeing as it’s a Reaper that greets them with its eternal grin and deadly scythe.

“Guess you’ll be proving it, Noctis,” Gladio says as he summons his greatsword.

“I’ll do more than that,” Noctis replies, sword in hand and every word dripping determination. “Prompto!”

“Got it!” Prompto calls before taking aim and firing.

He’s pretty sure by the way the Reaper staggers slightly that the bullet connects with its shoulder, but the thing about creatures made up of nothing but bones and fraying cloaks is that he can’t be entirely sure. It takes time for the damage to really show on daemons like this. It takes darting strikes from Ignis and shattering blows from Gladio to see the Reaper really feel the heat.

Noctis shouts and they pull back a bit at that point, mostly out of necessity so that they don’t have daemons spawning right under their feet. Reapers don’t like to be alone for long, and just like the night before, they wind up surrounded by a crowd of skeletons and their spine chilling clattering, a bunch of bones moving without anything to hold them up.

Unlike last night, though, a Reaper summons them, and it doesn’t stick around for long after. Gladio bites out a curse as the burning scythe shimmers in and out of sight before the Reaper sinks into the shadows behind the warehouse, nothing left of it even through Prompto’s goggles.

“Don’t let your guard down,” Noctis warns them as if they had any plans of doing so. Shot calling, though. “It’ll be back exactly when you don’t want it to be.”

“I got your back, buddy,” Prompto calls back, a habit if nothing else. More than that, though, Prompto is determined--he _won’t_ screw things up this time.

The skeletons aren’t difficult to handle, not to the four of them. They’re stupid fast for things with no ligaments or muscles to speak of, but one good knock can turn the tide with them and send their bones sprawling, and a well-aimed flare can show everyone exactly where to hit. Prompto tosses one out and the world is washed out in electric white for a few seconds, and when the light dies out a couple skeletons are going down, too.

He feels a chill, then, a tingle down the back of his neck, and he knows better than to question his gut. He rolls out of cover and turns so that he can see both the remaining skeletons engaged with the rest of the group as well as the Reaper gliding out of the shadows only a few feet from where he’d been crouched before.

“It’s back!” Prompto shouts.

Noctis glances over his shoulder and only needs to catch a glimpse of the scythe in the Reaper’s hands before he starts turning on his heel. “I’ll handle it--cover me, Gladio!”

Covering Noctis only amounts to bashing a skeleton over the skull with a shield before it can dig its claws into the ghost of Noctis left behind after he blinks away, but Gladio does it anyway. It makes a gross grinding noise as its body starts to fall apart, but it’s mostly drowned out by the sound of Noctis’ sword clashing with the Reaper’s scythe.

The Reaper is revitalized after its disappearing act, but it’s not going to be enough to save it. It’ll go down, and they can break off a piece of its scythe before it shatters completely, and then they can go on their way.

Caught up in his own surety and his concentration on the Reaper, Prompto misses the skeleton that dances behind him until Ignis is alerting him with a severe tone--right before Prompto’s feet are swept out from under him. He hits the ground on his left side, jostled hard enough that his goggles go lopsided and he loses his grip on his pistol, letting it slide a few feet away.

He hears Noctis shout dimly through the mantra in his head of _shit, double shit_ , and tries to roll away from the attack that’s surely coming from behind, but the lights above him disorient him and he can’t tell exactly where the skeleton is as he struggles to recognize the auxiliary lamps from the collection of larger, hazier lights of bombs up above--or maybe flares thrown from a distance by another hunter--or something else that fizzles out after he blinks hard enough and takes a steadying breath.

There comes the sounds of a daemon’s dying shriek and shattering bones, and then Gladio is pulling Prompto to his feet.

“You good?” he asks roughly, his attention caught between Prompto and their enemies.

Prompto straightens his goggles out before he wiggles out of Gladio’s grip to swipe his gun off the ground quickly. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good! Watch out for some other nasties nearby, I thought I caught a glimpse of them.”

“You’d see ‘em before I would,” Gladio says offhandedly, pointing loosely at Prompto’s face. Then, satisfied that nobody got an arm chopped off and he can go back to bashing skulls in, he does just that.

The daemons are finished soon after, the skeletons reduced to dirty ash and a few collected shards, and the Reaper reduced to nothing more than the shiny point of its scythe wrapped up in Noctis’ pocket. Noctis jogs to Prompto’s side as Ignis tosses Gladio a potion for a slice down his arm.

“You’re fine, right?” Noctis asks as he catches his breath, eyes flicking up and down, looking for nonexistent injuries.

“Peachy,” Prompto replies, worrying at his lip. “I just lost track of them for a second--”

“Good thing you had Gladio right there,” Noctis says, relieved.

Lucky, although Prompto’s pretty sure Gladio had been on his way to Noctis. He laughs a little and says quietly, “I’ll be more careful next time.”

Noctis squeezes his shoulder hard, the sensation grounding. “We’re doing good so far. Don’t get too worked up.”

Prompto knows that. He really does--they’re all in good health and his knee only aches a little after falling, but it’ll fade the next time he needs a potion--so, he nods and smiles back, and when they get back to work after a short break to catch their breaths, he does so without faltering.

 

\--

 

Midnight has come and gone when they cross an empty roundabout, sneaking between the encounters of other hunters and daemons toward a cluster of boarded shop fronts. The alleys between them look promising, a welcoming place for monsters to fight.

They don’t even reach the boarded windows when a loud clattering noise spills out of the alley, and a pair of bussemand bound out to meet them. Case in point.

Bussemand are larger than goblins, harder hitting than hobgoblins, but the two of them alone are simple enough to do away with as long as everyone can keep away from their swift flurries of punches, which Prompto does easily by keeping a distance with his rifle. Still, it isn’t long before he realizes he’s biting his bottom lip painfully hard, almost hard enough to blot out the ache in his knee.

It’s not the guttural noises of the bussemand that set Prompto on edge, though, and neither is it the sound of their bones breaking or their contorted faces.

It’s the figure that steps into the road from the darkness of the alley, melting from the shadows without a sound, gaunt and looming over even Gladio with a long, sharp blade glinting wicked in the night.

Gladio turns from the fallen body of one bussemand and hollers, “More company!”

At the same time, Prompto manages to pry his teeth apart and yell at Noctis. He’s not sure if the sound is wordless, or if he manages any kind of actual warning--the Ronin is there, though, surveying the battlefield with cold eyes, and Noctis is turning his head to look at it even as he grapples with the remaining bussemand.

And then, like a scene in a movie that Prompto has no hope of changing, he watches as the bussemand takes advantage of the split second of distraction and winds up for a bone-breaking punch--

\--right before Ignis takes advantage of its opening in turn and drives one of his daggers deep between its ribs.

“Don’t get distracted!” Ignis yanks his dagger free, pulling the bussemand away from Noctis at the same time. It staggers away and goes down after Noctis grits his teeth and deals it a killing blow. “The Ronin will be dangerous enough without broken ribs.”

“I know _exactly_ how dangerous that thing is,” Noctis snaps. He turns on his heel to face the Ronin as if to prove a point, hands clenched tight, but his line of sight is blocked by Gladio and his shield.

“Let’s show ‘em how we deal with horror movie rejects, then,” Gladio says. Only able to see his back, Prompto can only imagine the harsh grin full of teeth meant to goad the daemon in front of him into attacking him first.

Prompto means to warn him in that case, if he means to block the first swing. Gladio is deceptively quick on his feet, but the Ronin is something else entirely, a whole different level. He’ll get one chance, maybe two, but the daemon won’t give him any more. Prompto _wants_ to warn him, manages to get a breath in his lungs and everything as the Ronin takes another step, sword raised, but he gets stuck there. The words are lost in his throat, his knees locked in place.

It’s just like last time--creatures that big don’t just come out of nowhere, but the Ronin does. They can’t just cut down everything in one go, but the Ronin can. Gladio can’t just _stand there_ and take the blow and come away clean--

\--except he does.

When the Ronin feints, making first for Gladio’s left, Gladio sees it coming, and when the blade blurs as it comes down from the other side it meets Gladio’s shield instead of his shoulder. Prompto can see the effort it takes to fend off the Ronin’s considerable strength, too, but Gladio still does it, even managing to force the Ronin to side-step farther into the open road. Then, not only does Prompto have a better line of sight, but so does Ignis, who sends it staggering even more before he dances nimbly away from the counterattack.

Noctis is a phantom among them, the afterimage of his body fading from the road before he reappears behind the Ronin. That’s the last piece Prompto needs before he realizes that he has a totally clear shot, that his body is still working even though parts of him feel like they might be burning, that he can still lift his rifle, tighten his grip and pull the trigger--that he _needs_ to do so.

“Prom!” Noctis shouts as the Ronin turns toward him, turns its back on Prompto.

Prompto falls into a proper stance like it’s second nature, aims in one breath, two, and fires. The Ronin recovers so quickly from its stumble that it’s almost as if it didn’t happen at all, but Prompto sees it clear as day. It makes him feel like his veins are alight but for an entirely different reason.

He’d seen it coming this time, and he didn’t miss.

They’d all seen it coming, and the Ronin can’t fight them all at the same time.

It’s hell-bent on trying, though, because uneven odds don’t faze a daemon like this. Every move is calculated and swift, smooth enough to give Ignis a run for his money even when they start to wear it down. It’s hard to tell, even though there’s flesh on the bones--flesh that bleeds and turns sickly red over its weakening heart. It lurches and falters, but it never actually loses its footing, not until after Noctis orders everyone to keep their distance with light flickering in his palm.

They all know what’s coming after fighting this many daemons together. Noctis has been keeping the spells reined in for the most part, unless it’s to quickly deal with a few flans, which practically ignore everything _but_ the might of his magic. For more powerful daemons, though, the situation calls for a little more firepower.

Noctis catches Prompto’s eyes for a brief moment across the distance, and Prompto nods. Then, Noctis advances on the Ronin before it can try to chase anyone else down. It turns to meet him, their swords clashing together just before the road is lit by a play of light that blooms from his hand.

The air around them chills in a split second, a flash freeze that draws massive icicles out of the ground at Noctis’ feet before they shatter, driving shards deep into the Ronin’s skin as a sheet of ice covers the road. Frozen mist hangs in the air even as the wind turns harsh and biting, swirling around Noctis’ body and netting his hair in glimmering specks of magic.

There’s beauty in ice magic, a dangerous kind that Prompto can feel even from a distance. Despite knowing that Noctis would never cast such a spell on him, it still fights to sink under his skin, chill him deep inside, stop him from kneeling to steady his aim and pull the trigger while the Ronin is trapped in the heart of the blizzard, sluggish and jerking as it tries to escape.

Noctis stands before it, though, his body shimmering with faint light--white like the ice, like the barrier that protects him from his spells-- _safe, safe_.

When the ice fades, Prompto watches with bated breath. The Ronin is on its knee and Noctis’ sword is through its torso. Its head is bowed as blood drips like oil from its wounds and a creeping aura snakes up its neck.

Its hand is still gripping its sword. Prompto sees it like a detail caught in a picture he’s just printed, one that would make him scowl at the fact that he hadn’t seen it beforehand.

Gladio sees it, too, and moves in like a blur as the Ronin shifts, rises up and lunges at Noctis like it was never run through at all. Gladio brings his shield up in a flash of crystalline light, but there’s something about the angle or the timing-- _something_ that lets the Ronin’s blade meet his shield at an odd angle, lets it skate over the surface with an ear-splitting squeal and then slide off entirely. Prompto’s too far away to see it properly and before he can try through the sight of his rifle, the scene has changed again, stunningly obvious.

Noctis’ sword is still there, lodged deep. So are Ignis’ daggers, jammed into the daemon’s back. So are Gladio’s hands as he lets both his sword and shield dissolve so that he can reach forward and snap the dying Ronin’s neck, his lips twisting in a pained grimace while blood runs down his face, into his teeth and off his chin from the slash across his brow.

“Holy shit,” Prompto gasps as the Ronin finally crumples. He runs forward, and the mask of blood on Gladio’s face looks worse with every step. He’s almost glad for how it obscures the actual wound, the possibility that there’s bone showing underneath. “Astrals--did you just--”

“Did you get hit?” Noctis asks from over Gladio’s shoulder. He circles around, his face caught up in a mixture of shock and indignation when he sees the blood. “What the hell was that?”

Gladio reaches up to brush his fingers against his forehead and winces slightly. He’s still standing, though, and from what Prompto can tell, he’s still totally alert. He looks toward Ignis and says as if it’s an everyday thing for him to have his face cut open, “Shit, Iggy--pass me a potion, would you?”

“Perhaps two,” Ignis replies, reaching into his first aid supplies with one hand and tilting Gladio’s face this way and that with the other. For all that looking at the wound from a few feet away has Prompto on edge, Ignis doesn’t sound terribly strained.

Gladio shakes his head, quickly at first, then much slower. “It’s not that bad. I’ll probably need another one for something else later, anyway.”

Noctis scoffs. “Not that bad? You just stopped a sword _with your face_. What were you thinking?”

Gladio takes the offered potion from Ignis and waits for its effects to wash over him before he turns his gaze on Noctis with a frown. “I was _thinking_ that I’d stop a daemon from running you through. It was moving too fast for you to get out of the way, notice that?”

“Yeah, I noticed, but I can literally _teleport_. You almost got your head chopped off!”

Gladio rolls his shoulders back, clearly about to snap back, but in the end, he steps back with a harsh sigh. “I’m not about to be _scolded_ for saving your life.”

Beside them, Noctis’ sword clatters to the ground as the Ronin’s body dissolves, but the sound and the decay goes forgotten as Noctis clenches his hands at his sides and grinds out through his teeth, “A lot of good saving someone’s life does if someone _else_ still dies.”

Prompto’s chest tightens. He steps forward, looking around for daemon’s like he’d check for traffic during the day, before reaching for Noctis’ shoulder. “Noct. Look--he’s fine. See? He’s just gonna have a badass scar. That’s totally why you don’t want that second potion, right?”

Gladio looks back at him, his expression indecipherable under his own blood. He isn’t bleeding anymore, but the cut is still very much present on his brow, intersecting with the old scar that drops over his left eye. By the time he’s injured enough to need another potion, it likely won’t have much of an effect on this injury. It’ll be a wicked scar, that’s for sure.

“This might well have been inevitable,” Ignis chimes in from Gladio’s side, a smile on his lips that borders remorseful. “What with being part of a team and all. Sometimes risks must be taken. We’re all well aware of this, no?”

“Exactly,” Gladio says. “I told you I’d try to protect everyone. A little cut like this isn’t gonna slow me down.”

Noctis looks down at their feet, his lips pressed together tightly. His shoulder is like a stone under Prompto’s hand, heavy with tension. It bleeds from him slowly, bit by bit after he releases a deep breath. He likes the idea of other people being in danger for him about as much as Prompto does, which is not a lot.

Prompto gets it, though, even though he knows getting scars like Gladio’s would be painful as hell. The idea of stepping into the path of a razor sharp blade? Terrible idea, objectively speaking. But still--he wouldn’t have become a hunter in the first place if he didn’t understand.

Noctis lets out a quiet sigh and lifts his head again. His shoulder slumps a little under Prompto’s hand and then, just as he opens his mouth again, the tension springs back, coiled almost as tight as it was in the beginning. He leans to the side slightly, frowning past Gladio’s arm, and Prompto’s afraid that he’s been injured this whole time and they’re only just noticing because he’s about to buckle.

But then Prompto notices the street dimming, even through his goggles, and he turns sharply to follow Noctis’ line of sight, searching for whatever daemon is casting the shadow.

There’s no daemon. Not close by, anyway. Instead, Prompto looks just in time to see the nearest auxiliary lights dim, then brightening again, then dim even worse.

“The bulbs are going,” Ignis says. “Maybe we should leave the area before it gets completely dark. Prompto is the only one with proper night vision, after all.”

Noctis shakes his head. “We have flashlights,” he says slowly. “But I don’t think--”

His voice is drowned out by a blaring siren, so loud that it startles the entire group and sends a sudden chill down Prompto’s spine. There are only so many places the siren can come from, especially during the Festival of the Hunt. But-- _why?_

A voice cuts through the siren. Dave’s. Prompto hears one word, “ _Hunters--_ ”

And then it all shuts down. The siren, the loudspeaker, all the lights around them. The world turns dark and quiet, and through his goggles everything has gone the ugly, murky green that Prompto only has to suffer through when not even the moon is available to provide some extra light.

“What the hell is going on?” Gladio demands, turning to Prompto and Noctis for answers that they don’t really have.

Noctis curses and digs into his vest for his flashlight, clipping it to his belt as soon as he clicks it on. It helps with the sudden blindness, but not much else. “I don’t know--something’s going on. Prompto--the lights--can you tell if any of them are still on?”

Prompto glances around, but they’re too far into the hunting grounds, surrounded by too many high walls for him to be able to see how the rest of the town is faring. Judging by the nearest voices rising in confusion and worry, though, he isn’t going to like what’s happening. He shakes his head and looks back at Noctis, about to ask what they should do.

For a split second, washed out by his flashlight and faintly lit from overhead, Noctis is a haunting sight. Then Prompto realizes that there’s a second light source at all and he looks up, hoping to find a street lamp somewhere close by. There isn’t one.

But there are lights above them, a cluster of them, dim and hazy against the clouds--the same lights he’d seen earlier, Prompto realizes with a shock. They aren’t directly overhead, but they’re close enough that he can recognize that they don’t belong to bombs or flares. They’re something else, all lined up in rows and growing steadily larger, sharper, brighter.

They belong to something that shouldn’t be here.

“Son of a bitch,” Gladio says with a voice like rolling thunder, a warning before a bad storm. “Ignis--”

“This is not good,” Ignis says grimly. Prompto tears his gaze away from the lights just in time to see him share an ominous look full of nothing less than dread.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” Noctis spits out as the airship descends over the town, huge and bulky, Niflheim made and so wildly out of place and unwelcome.

A shout rings out, a bellow from the top of someone’s lungs that Prompto thinks he repeats through the pounding of his heart in his ears.

_“Imperials above us!”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detours? In my fic? Taking place in the exact point of time so as to parallel a past event? Who could have known...
> 
> Despite the length of this chapter, I still had some trouble deciding how to cut the pieces together, but hopefully, that will get easier in the next few chapters because the plot is going to move much faster. Like a detour except instead of going on another backroad, we're merging onto the highway for a bit :0 All in good fun, though. Sometimes you just gotta get messy to go from "I think I can tolerate these people enough to nickname them" to "this is my ride or die squad."
> 
> Thanks for your patience in waiting for these longer chapters! As of the last chapter, this is actually the longest thing I've ever written :0 When I started this fic I only had a few plot points laid out and knew I'd have to find a way to connect them all, and we're coming up now on like two or three of them, which is part of why this little arc is my favourite. All your comments and kudos make reaching these pieces even more exciting :D


	13. lines of defense

Pinned in an alley with a few other hunters that they managed to group up with, Noctis punches in Dave’s number and gets a busy line again.

_"We’re sorry; the number you are trying to reach--”_

Damn.

He’d known that would happen, but there’s not a whole lot else he can do to figure out what’s happening. Dave is one of the only hunters he really _knows_ in the garrison with an eye on everything, if that can even be counted for anything when the garrison lights are off, too. Dave might not even have the _time_ to field calls.

“Anything?” Prompto asks over his shoulder. He and Gladio are blocking the end of the alley, keeping a flock of imps from getting by. Gladio stands like a living shield, using his own shield and a large trash bin as cover, while Prompto occasionally peeks out and takes shots.  

Another team of hunters is doing much the same at the other end of the alley while Noctis and Ignis are kneeling between them. Noctis is trying uselessly to get information and Ignis is helping a young woman patch up her partner’s wounds.

“Busy,” Noctis replies in a snap. “I can’t get through. What’s it look like out there?”

“Uh,” Prompto says, all wired with uncertainty.

“Bad,” Gladio answers over him. Noctis can hear the odd gait of Magitek soldiers somewhere beyond him. “What the hell are these guys doing here anyway?”

The question of the hour, passing clean through confusion straight to bitterness--because it doesn’t matter what they’ve been hearing on the radio. Just like before, they’ve heard nothing about an actual ceasefire. Niflheim is still down for trying to burn them all down. 

“They likely want Fort Vaullerey,” Ignis says, still wrist-deep in someone else’s blood, guided by the light pinned to his jacket. “You all are the closest Lucis has to soldiers out here; you’re a threat. And of all the times to strike…”

Yeah, they’re in some shit. 

“We can’t stay here much longer,” Gladio warns from the mouth of the alley. “How soon can you guys get moving again?”

“Give us another few minutes,” the woman next to Ignis says through grit teeth. 

Noctis thinks she says something else, but his attention drops away as soon as his phone begins to ring in his hand, the screen lighting up under the dirt his fingers have smudged across it with a name that hasn't popped up in his call history for weeks.

“Is that him?” Prompto asks hopefully. 

Noctis shakes his head, then remembers that Prompto’s on guard duty and can’t look at him. “It’s _Vesta_. Hello?”

The line is crackly and full of background noise, much of the same tune that Noctis is dealing with. “Noctis,” comes Vesta’s voice, sharp and strained. “Are you--nevermind. You’re in town, too.”

“Yeah, of _course_ I am. I thought you were, too. Where have you been?”

“In town,” Vesta says shortly, explaining absolutely nothing. Given the circumstances, she can be forgiven on that front. “Just haven’t been in the garrison. Listen, we don’t have a lot of time--”

“No kidding,” Noctis interjects. “I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on but I can’t get a hold of Dave--”

“Kinda got his hands full, kid. But listen-- _back off!_ ” 

Noctis draws his phone away from his ear as Vesta roars at something on her end. Maybe a daemon. Hopefully, something that gets its head bashed. He hears the familiar sound of barking before the line is filled with indistinguishable noise, then harsh breathing.

“Where are you right now, Noct?” Vesta asks before she’s caught her breath.

Noctis only has a vague idea of which streets he’s close to. They’d tried to make their way north-west, tried to get back to the river and go from there, but that plan had gone out the window almost immediately. There’s just too much in the way, forcing them to take the long way around. 

“We’re trying to get to King to get back to the garrison,” he says. “We’re still a ways from it, though--south or--near Cantus Square, I think.”

“More east, then--here, Nan. That’s good, Noct.”

“Good? How is that--”

“Because that should make it easier for you to get up here,” Vesta says before Noctis can finish. “Get into the north end of town. The daemons can have that nest for the night, the only people there are the ones who can _fight_. Dave wants more people up here. He’s got people looking into the power station, but whatever’s going on there is gonna take time to fix. _Meanwhile_ \--”

“Everyone else is pretty much defenceless,” Noctis finishes. He swears into the microphone and glances up as an airship drones overhead. To the civilians, Empties aren’t the problem. _They_ can be hidden from. Daemons don’t care about locked doors and curtained windows, though. 

“Are you headed there?” he asks. He tries to parse out where Vesta might be from the background noises from her end of the call, but it’s a useless effort. She’s running somewhere, that’s all he can tell.

“Already here,” Vesta says. “Not even on the Six-damned hunting grounds anymore and still getting these bastards. Look, I got no time anymore. Get moving, Noct; we really need a heavy hitter up here.”

That doesn’t bode well any way Noctis looks at it. If things are bad already, there’s no telling what he’ll find when he finally gets past King. On top of that, there’s only one thing making him the heavy hitter she wants. It tingles in his fingertips, runs unbidden along his nerves and beats heavy in his skull, especially after he’d shocked a close-knit squad of Empties before they’d all ducked into this alley.

He doesn’t see a way to _not_ push himself before the sun rises, and he hopes that doesn’t come around to bite him in the ass before then. 

“Okay, then,” Noctis says, quickly glancing up and down the alley. Nobody is comfortable by a long shot, but they’re about to bleed out, either. “I can get there.”

“Do your best, and send whoever else you can get on the way north. We need people up here more than the grounds.”

“Got it.”

“And just--stay safe, okay?” Vesta adds, softer, wavering. “Don’t do anything your dad wouldn’t do, Noctis.”

Noctis swallows thickly, almost nods to avoid having to say anything to that.

There isn’t much that his dad wouldn’t have done.

But he’s still on the phone, so he replies, “I’ll be fine. You keep things running up there.”

“Until then, Noct,” Vesta says. The line goes dead, the noise of the chaos around him cutting out by half, and he shoves his phone back into his pocket.

“What did she say?” Prompto asks immediately. “You can get where? Is she okay?”

“She’s just peachy. We gotta get going northbound, though,” Noctis answers quickly. “Dave’s trying to get people up there to help out.” He looks toward the other hunters. “Hey, can you guys still fight?”

“I can,” the woman says for all that she sounds haggard. She gestures at her companion, leaning against the building behind her. “But she can’t. We don’t have any more potions on us. Meant to go back to the garrison--”

“We still have some,” Ignis says. His mouth takes on a downward, regretful turn, but the woman doesn’t need him to continue. 

“You’re gonna need ‘em with everything going on,” she says firmly. “If Dave needs us up there, then I gotta get her to safety and restock first.” 

“Get ready to move, then,” Gladio barks from the end of the alley. He and Prompto are kneeling behind the cover of the trash bin, ready to move out again when they need to. “As soon as we get an opening, got it?”

Their opening comes just a moment later when everyone in the alley has gathered together, loosely arranging themselves to cover the most injured. At first, it looks like they’ll need to fight their way out as something maddeningly similar to a Reaper begins to take shape close by, but then a horn blares from down the street, heralding the arrival of a large pick-up that rams into the daemon and sends it scattering across the pavement. 

A woman is crouched in the bed of the truck with a rifle. Another sticks her head out of the driver’s window after the truck comes to a screeching halt. 

She tips her hat and calls to them with all the ease of someone who knows they’re coming to the rescue, “Y’all need a ride?”

 

\--

 

Gladio scrounges up the time to make a call at half-past three in the morning, what would be considered the final stretch for the daemon hours were it not overcast. The lull in activity can barely be called that, but he allows the moment to be as such whenever they aren’t actively dodging a dozen ways to die. 

They’re huddled just outside a motel, doing their best to keep the perimeter clear. Behind them, the doors are locked and the curtains are all drawn over the windows. Inside, the rooms are filled with people gathered in lights powered by a backup generator and whatever battery-powered lights they had. It’s enough to deter daemons from spawning inside the building, and, provided they can keep anything from knocking at the doors, it’s enough to keep people safe.

When the parking lot is clear and it seems like other hunters have things under control, Gladio pulls his phone out and takes two seconds to consider his call history--his father and the Marshal are one tap away, but only one of them is going to be able to do anything about the shit they’re in.

Should have gone with his gut, Gladio thinks darkly as he presses his phone against his ear. Should have ignored his head and heart, pride and anxiety, while it was safe to do so--should have done his duty and found the quickest way to get Noctis out of here and _left_.

At half-past three in the morning, his father answers. The first words out of his mouth are: “What is it?” Brisk, serious, hardly a tell in the world that he’s just woken up--if he’d been sleeping at all. Perhaps he hadn’t been, considering the slight time difference between them.

“We’ve got trouble here,” Gladio blurts out immediately. Hopefully, Clarus can catch the noise going on beyond the motel parking lot. Daemons crawling all over the place, Imperials mixed up in the sudden onslaught like walking mines, hunters fighting it all back with dwindling energy. “I’m talking deep shit.”

Something rustling, shifting on the other end of the line. “That festival going worse than you thought?”

“Worse,” Gladio all but spits out. 

The Festival of the Hunt, in all honesty, hadn’t been going badly at all. Hell, given the chance, their team probably could have fought right to the very last hour and raked in the rewards for it. Nobody’s thinking about rewards now, though. 

“The Niffs are all over this place. Showed up out of nowhere and now the whole town’s in trouble. I thought they were all trying to beat down the Wall. What the hell changed?”

Clarus curses under his breath. “I’ve seen no reports of Niflheim moving troops west, or otherwise making moves that changed the stalemate here. Cleigne shouldn’t offer anything to them.”

“Tell that to these guys. Noctis--”

“Is dead as far as anyone is concerned,” Clarus interjects before Gladio can bring his full concern up. At the mention of his name, Noctis looks up sharply. Prompto is curious, too, and they’re both probably itching to be able to overhear the whole conversation.

“Are we sure about that?” Gladio asks brusquely. 

“Three people in the entire city know,” Clarus says. “No one else has been brought into the fold--or if they have, I haven’t been made aware.”

“Yeah, three people, plus the Glaives here earlier,” Gladio repeats. He thinks back to the suddenness of the dropships over the town and very few theories explain it. One makes him want to vomit. “There shouldn’t be anything out here for them unless they picked something up out of the blue. Who else would have--”

Clarus cuts him off again with a tone edged with sharp steel. “ _Marshal Leonis is not a traitor_.”

“I’m only asking so  _you_ don’t have to,” Gladio retorts. “I don’t like the idea either, but I don’t have time to pull punches when we’re surrounded on all fronts out here. It’s complete _chaos_.”

“What’s the situation now? And what of His Highness? His safety is paramount here.”

“His safety is fine,” Gladio answers, hazarding a glance toward Noctis, who isn’t looking back anymore but is still obviously listening. 

Gladio surveys the street quickly before gathering his thoughts, rattling off the report. The immediate vicinity of the motel is still clear, but it won’t be for much longer. The town’s still dark and Clarus doesn’t need an explanation as to why that’s bad news. The Empties are being kept a bay for now, but until it gets light enough outside, Gladio can’t stop looking over his shoulder and checking the cracks in the road. They’re all exhausted, daemons keep popping up, they’ve got next to nothing on curatives, and even when the daemons _do_ screw off, they’re still left with the Empire falling out of the sky.

“All in all, we’re pinned down,” Gladio says, rounding off the report. “If the Imperials haven’t officially claimed control of this area, they will soon, and not only will they make it hell to move around, Noctis won’t abandon the fight.”

Clarus hums, an understanding but all together detached sound. “Callous as it may sound, but whether or not he wants to remain in harm’s way isn’t the issue.”

Gladio knows this already. He’ll haul Noctis out fighting if he has to. Running blindly out of town is only a step up from suicide, though. “What’s the word on the Glaives?”

“Stationed in eastern Cavaugh,” Clarus answers, and Gladio recognizes his clipped tone with the same bitterness that Noctis has adopted. It’s a stone wall, too thick to bother knocking on. “But all isn’t lost. Give me an hour to confer with His Majesty and make arrangements. I will contact you again and in the meantime… This is where you do your duty, Gladiolus. Prince Noctis will not fall into Niflheim’s hands again.”

“Understood,” Gladio answers. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You’ve trained for this, and if His Highness is as capable as Ignis claims, then you’ll see dawn. Until then.”

Clarus doesn’t wait for a response, but it doesn’t matter--the timing is perfect as it is. Prompto is calling for their attention, pointing down the street where miasma is starting to bubble over the road, thicker than Gladio’s ever seen it. 

“ _Damn_ ,” Noctis hisses. He readies himself all the same as something begins to emerge, something so large and heavy that it shakes the ground around them. “We got big company.”

“I was really hoping we could avoid these guys,” Prompto says, echoing Noctis dismay. He’s been limping almost since the Imperials touched down, but it’s getting pretty bad, now--and yet, he still grips his rifle tight as he continues, “C’mon, guys! We gotta get that thing away from the motel!”

Gladio is torn between telling Prompto to back off and acknowledging his unfaltering determination. There’s no time to argue, though, not while Noctis is already leading the way toward the daemon, massive even before it’s on its feet, so he settles for gripping Prompto’s shoulder, slowing him down.

“Keep your distance,” Gladio tells him. “I mean it. One more hit and your leg is fucked.”

Prompto purses his lips, but he still concedes with a nod and moves to take cover next to a car parked on the side of the road. “I’ll keep close to the motel in case anything else pops up nearby.”

It’s as good as they’re going to get; Prompto won’t back down if Noctis is still in the fight. Gladio wants to admire that, but as he turns to catch up with Noctis and Ignis he finds the feeling smothered, drowned like a bird in stormy waters.

He knows about iron giants. In theory, he knows what they’re capable of and how to take them down, mostly thanks to Ignis’ research. 

In theory, he knows that he’s trained to protect Noctis from any kind of threat. But his father’s voice is an echo in his mind where it usually booms, where it usually makes him feel stronger, knowing that he’s made of the same stuff as the king’s Shield, capable of carrying the same weight.

In practice, a daemon larger than any creature he’s ever seen is looming over him and he’s tasked with making sure Noctis outlives it. 

Theoretically, the motel is a secondary concern.

In practice--

One wide sweep of the giant’s sword threatens to level a small building. The impact of its next strike upon the road rocks Gladio’s bones, only serving to worsen the tremors running through him already from the too many seconds it’s taking to claw back the wild energy of his instincts, to turn it into something useful.

 _This is where_ \--

Noctis, tired as the rest of them, blinks out of existence and reappears near the giant’s shoulder. The inertia of his warp-strike is enough to stagger the giant, to send it staggering down the road a few paces, into an intersection. It makes to swat Noctis away from its face like a fly--and here, there’s no chance of Gladio reaching him, he’s _already_ failed--but it pulls its hand back as if from a sudden fire when Prompto’s rifle cracks and sends a bullet into the giant’s wrist.

Noctis warps again, landing safely on the ground to the tune of Prompto reminding him to be careful. He darts in to strike at the giant’s vulnerable ankle and then retreats, entirely unharmed by the maneuver, even though his steps are uneven. 

“We must keep it distracted!” Ignis shouts as he throws his daggers into the wound Noctis created. The giant takes another step back as the daggers vanish into sparks and reappear in Ignis’ hands. “If we can keep it busy until sunrise, the work will be done for us.”

One breath, two. It’s a sound enough plan, a _direction_ to move in. Gladio grits his teeth and hoists his sword up into a proper position. Dawn is coming. All they have to do until then is distract the daemon and not get chopped in half. They can do that. 

Breathe in--

If it gets any worse, then at least they’ll have daylight to see by.

\--out--

So, it’s only their luck that even as they steadily push the giant back, putting more distance between it and the motel, they have the light of bombs, first.

“Maybe if we time it right,” Noctis gasps after rolling underneath a bomb’s flaming tackle and scraping himself off the ground behind Gladio, “then we can get one to detonate on the giant. Two birds and all.”

“You think we can pull that off?”

“Got any better ideas? It’s not light enough yet.”

Gladio does have better ideas--or, rather, just the one. One of the bombs floating around them isn’t like the others. It’s been too large since it appeared, cloaked in a fire that burns too close to blue. Vaguely, he remembers Ignis’ notes, remembers that even daemons have subspecies. This one’s name escapes him, but it’s bad luck either way.

“We can’t hold out much longer,” Gladio says as he deflects another bomb, sending it careening into a third. 

“We don’t _have_ to--just until we get some light.”

“That’s still a ways off, Noctis,” Ignis reminds them. He makes eye contact with Gladio for a split second, and even though there’s no time to keep it before they all scatter to avoid getting burned or cleaved in two, the message is clear--they’ve been fighting a losing battle for a while now. “At the very least, we _need_ to fall back.”

“ _Damn it_ ,” Noctis says breathlessly. He knows they’re right. 

“Let’s try and lead them off,” Gladio suggests. Two birds with one stone--the daemons will be far from the motel, and Noctis will fall back once they’ve lost the trail. Hopefully, they’ll run into other hunters who can take up the fight for them.

Prompto’s voice, much closer than before, cuts in before Noctis can agree or disagree, though.

“Noct-- _look out!_ ”

There’s no gunshot to ward off whatever’s coming for Noctis’ back, but Gladio doesn’t need one. He can see the giant’s fist digging into the ruined street, the rubble flying through the air as it swings toward them. He pulls Noctis to the ground and raises his shield over them just in time for the debris to clash uselessly against it. It hurts his arm no more than the dust following the debris stings his throat when he coughs. 

The iron giant is just slow enough after each of its attacks that Gladio knows before he’s even lowered his shield that they have an opening. He stands, pulling Noctis up with him, and fully intends to haul ass when Prompto, closer yet again, calls out, “ _Move!_ ”

 _This is where_ \--

Gladio topples with the unexpected weight of Noctis being shoved into his back. The concrete tearing his skin is an afterthought, the pain hardly even there as he wriggles out from underneath Noctis to turn and see what the hell just plowed them over, and for a split second, all he sees is the bomb hovering far too close.

But then Noctis cries out Prompto’s name and flings himself off of Gladio. Gladio follows his trajectory and finds Prompto, entirely unarmed on the ground, face twisted with pain as his right side burns.

The bomb that rammed into him instead of Noctis flares brighter and sets its sights on Gladio. The iron giant roars behind him.

 _This is where_ \--

Ignis’ daggers douse the bombs’ flames in the same second that Noctis smothers the fire licking up Prompto’s arm with their last potion, and the bomb fizzles into nothing in the same second that a spear flies through the air and drives itself deep into the iron giant’s arm.  

A woman roars over the din of too many daemons, too many footsteps coming toward them. “You’ve got your orders-- _get this turned around!_ ”

Gladio scrambles to his feet, moving to where Noctis is simultaneously trying to cover Prompto with his body and drag him away from the fight. There, he realizes that the soldiers surrounding them are human. Their eyes don’t glow red and their movements aren’t perfectly uniform as they fan out in the road. Some are gone before he can properly count them, making for some threat in the darkness that he doesn’t even want to fathom right now. Most set their sights on the swarm right in front of them. 

They aren’t Magitek, but they aren’t hunters, either. Not with their blatantly Niflheim uniforms, not when one aims their rifle directly at Gladio, then at Prompto-- _at Noctis_ \--as they pass, before ignoring them almost completely. Gladio is almost frozen with confusion until something whips past him, a flicker of black and silver.

The soldiers and their guns have nothing on the woman that charges straight for the iron giant and rips the lance from its flesh. None of them have the aura of danger that emanates from her--from her armour, the wicked lance in her hand, the sound of her voice and even the way she moves with the grace and deadly intent of a coeurl. 

The iron giant howls and swings its sword, aims to wipe her out, but Gladio knows how that’s going to go down even before it does--she parries the blow and counters, leaping as quick as Gladio can blink to pierce deep again. Before the daemon can retaliate, she’s putting distance between them, too much for it to close while her comrades lay down cover fire.

“Are they _helping_ us?” Ignis asks breathlessly as he joins Gladio to provide cover Noctis and Prompto. 

“Keep ‘em busy,” the woman orders. “This place is gonna have more daemon corpses than they’ll know what to do with when we’re done.”

Then, as if to reply to a question she couldn’t possibly have heard, she whirls around, levels a glare at Gladio and Ignis, even Noctis behind them, points her lance at them and barks, “All right, now, get the hell out of here, all of you!”

“And just who the hell are you?” Noctis practically spits, the acidity of his voice undiminished by his position. “We’re not following some Niflheim lackey--”

She laughs, a derisive sound all full of teeth, and she looks down at him like a shark about to snap up its next meal. “That’s Commodore Highwind to you, and not to kick you while you’re already down, but you don’t look like you’re in any condition to fight, pretty boy. _None_ of you do. So, you’d best pick your friend up and get out while you can.”

“So you can run around and do whatever you want here?” Gladio asks harshly. When he hoped for reinforcements, _this_ isn’t what he’d meant. “Don’t think so. Whatever you want here--”

Commodore Highwind rolls her eyes and raises her lance toward him. “I ain’t the one who let daemons run free here--I’m just the one rounding them up. Run or don’t, I’m giving you a chance here because there’s a fucking grenade over there spawning more daemons. There’s nothing for anyone in a pile of rubble, so you better make up your Six-damned mind _now_.”

She’s right. A grenade-- _that’s_ the name--keeps shaking small, blue-white flares from its body, and each one takes the shape of a new bomb. Behind her, the iron giant is still on the move. Down the street, beyond the bulky airship that had landed near the motel while they were all distracted, there’s more trouble yet. Without the appearance of Highwind and her men, Gladio knows they’d have had trouble pulling back, even if their plan had been as simple as running away flat out. 

Commodore Highwind doesn’t give him the time to admit that she’s right, or to make more empty threats. The deadly edge of her lance is gone as she stalks away from them and rejoins the fight, leaving them standing uselessly behind the lines of her men. 

“She’s right,” Ignis says stiffly. “We’ve next to nothing left--we were about to retreat anyway.”

“I don’t have any ammo, either,” Prompto wheezes. 

For all that the potion healed the burns on his arm, he looks like hell. Gladio would give him more hell for taking a blow like that, but, well--he stopped a sword with his face, didn’t he?

Prompto continues, still pained, “What are they doing here? They can’t just--”

“They’re not gonna,” Noctis interjects, silencing Prompto with a hand on his uninjured arm. “Just--hang on, okay? Ignis.”

“What is it?”

“Get Prompto away from here,” Noctis says, scooping Prompto off the ground. Somehow, his tone stays level. “Get him back to the motel--please.”

Prompto startles as he picks up Noctis’ plans, “Wait, I just need some more--”

Ignis talks over him to Noctis, “You’re not staying _here_ \--”

Noctis snaps over both of them, “I’m not leaving this to _them_. This isn’t about the festival anymore. And you can’t _walk_ , Prompto.” 

Prompto groans as Ignis says carefully, “It would be wise to let them handle these.”

“ _Let them_ \--”

“ _Look at us_ , Noctis!” Ignis pleads, tugging him farther from the battle, away from the bombs and the giant that are only just under control. “She may not be our ally but she didn’t lie, either. We’ll soon be beyond exhausted if we continue for much longer. Where will we be then?”

It’s Prompto who replies as Noctis grinds his teeth together. “‘S home,” he says weakly. “They’re gonna try an’ wreck it again.”

An explosion sends them sprawling over each other again as one of the bombs detonates. Noctis still doesn’t budge and Gladio could scream at the dead-end before him.

_This is where you--_

“Get him out, Ignis,” he grinds out from between his teeth. “We’ll keep an eye on the shit show, but he’s done.” 

Ignis looks up at him with disbelief, then, as he surveys the chaos around them, understanding--Noctis won’t budge, but he’ll be easier to convince with Prompto out of danger. He sighs, “For Ramuh’s sake,” and then lets his daggers disappear as he holds his arms out. 

“Careful with his leg,” Noctis warns as he transfers Prompto into Ignis’ arms. Prompto hisses but doesn’t otherwise complain as they all stand up behind the loose cover of Gladio’s shield. 

“I’ll rejoin you as soon as I can,” Ignis promises.

“Stay safe,” Prompto says as his grip on Noctis’ vest slips away. His eyes flicker from Noctis to Gladio, unfocused at first, then sharp as a blade as he repeats himself. 

Gladio reads the message loud and clear. “Sun’s comin’ up soon. He’ll be fine with me.”

He can’t tell if Prompto fully believes him. He hopes that well of distrust dries up after tonight. 

Noctis turns toward the battle again, where the bombs are being whittled down and the iron giant is faltering under Commodore Highwind’s ferocity. Gladio reels him back with a hand on his shoulder. 

“I wasn’t kidding,” he growls. “We’ll keep an eye on them, but we’ve got shit all for first aid, now--we can’t bite off any more.”

“I know,” Noctis says raggedly. "But I'm supposed to stand back and just let them take over?”

Gladio tugs him back a few more steps. “And when you get in over your head? What then?"

Noctis, down to a dagger, worn down and sticky with dry blood, offers no response. Not even to say that they already are.

"Are you two fighting or are you waiting for something to come along and kill you?" Commodore Highwind hollers. “Figure it out--we can’t keep protecting you!”

There’s an explosion, distantly. Gladio ignores it in favour of reining in a snarl. He’s not fighting them, but hell if he needs to be protected by them. 

“Don’t overreach,” he growls over his shoulder as he lifts his shield. “So help me, Noctis--”

“We’ll take the bombs out together as soon as they’re weak enough,” Noctis says, already edging forward, forcing Gladio to move before him. “These guys wanna fight, then _fine_ , but if they get the chance to say they _rescued_ us, we’ll never get rid of them.”

Stubborn to the end of the line. It figures that this is what he’s been training for.

Commodore Highwind reacts to their presence the same way she seems to react to everything--dry laughter and sharp teeth. Gladio won’t contest her when it's her strength that has the iron giant on its knees, struggling to wield its sword after she ruined its wrist. He focuses instead on making sure Noctis doesn’t get himself killed, waiting for Ignis to return and back them up. 

The soldiers around them pay them no mind except to warn them and get them out of the way before they get shot. It’s nothing like what Gladio imagined being on an actual battlefield with Niffs to be. 

What are they after?

The sky finally begins to lighten noticeably. The sun will be up before Gladio has any answers.

But before that, he just catches an indistinguishable noise before the streets are lit orange. The auxiliaries. And then, the bright white street lamps. Then, the blinding floodlights. 

The daemons shriek against the sudden onslaught of light, the sound of them almost enough to make Gladio drop his weapon to cover his ears. 

“Would you look at that!” Commodore Highwind whoops over them. “Someone figured out the power. We’re done here, boys; let’s clean ‘em up and pick up the injured. If they can walk, leave ‘em; if they can’t, get ‘em.”

Noctis looks toward the sky, blinking at the lights above them. He’s drenched in sweat and smeared with blood and dust--they both are--but the relief in his eyes is palpable. The daemons around them, already weakened by the Commodore and her men, practically vanish before their eyes. 

“We did it,” Noctis gasps, watching the Niflheim troops pulling back, some limping, some hauling another along. He laughs, but it’s breathless and hollow. “Holy shit. We made it.”

“They’re pulling out,” Gladio adds. It’s taking almost everything he has left to keep his body from trembling and wavering and falling out from under him. “We gotta get going, too.”

Noctis turns and takes a step. Gladio can see the last reserves of his energy draining away, but he manages another, and another after that. “I know,” he says, pausing. “We gotta get Prom and Ignis--get back to the garrison. This isn’t over.”

Only daemon remains surround them now, boiling away in the gathering dawn. The Niffs are returning to heir airship; as he and Noctis slowly make their way back to the motel, Gladio can just see Commodore Highwind, her lance resting on her shoulder, boarding with a swagger.

She’d left them without a backwards look, not even a glance at Noctis. 

They don’t know. They weren’t here for him. 

They really showed up out of the blue--for the daemons?

Noctis draws in a sharp gasp, yanking Gladio from his thoughts. He turns to find a pinched expression on Noctis’ face, one eye squeezed shut as he clutches the side of his head.

“Noct--”

“I’m fine,” Noctis groans. “I just--magic--I overdid it--that’s not what --”

“‘Fine’ my ass,” Gladio growls, cursing internally as memories of when Noctis had collapsed flicker through his mind. He should have noticed sooner, but amidst all the chaos he hadn’t realized Noctis’ headaches had returned. “Are you gonna be able to make it--”

“ _Prompto!_ ” Noctis calls suddenly, his voice so hoarse that it barely breaks his normal volume. 

Gladio looks up the road, expecting to see Prompto approaching them, limping on his bad leg, or otherwise doing something to cause Noctis such distress, but all he sees is the last of the Niffs packing up, their airship preparing to take off again. 

“No, no, no--”

Noctis staggers, rights himself, and nearly goes down again as he lurches forward. 

“Slow down, Noctis,” Gladio warns him, grabbing his arm. Noctis tries to wriggle free, but he’s too weak even for Gladio’s exhausted state.

“They’re taking him!” Noctis snaps.

Gladio looks ahead again, shocked--and there, a tuft of dirty, ash-filled blond hair being carried over the shoulder of one of the boarding soldiers. 

But how? Gladio searches the group again. _Where is Ignis?_

Noctis wrenches free, making for the airship. He shouts, but his voice is drowned out by the drone of the magitek engine. The Commodore ignores him.

And there--Ignis. He's lost his jacket, and he's obviously on his feet only because another of Highwind’s men is keeping him upright. He's hardly moving otherwise.

Gladio freezes, Highwind’s last order echoing in his head with dawning dread.

They didn’t make it to the motel, left instead at the mercy of Niflheim’s troops. Noctis, still clutching his head, still barely on his feet, won’t reach them before they’re gone. And Gladio--

_This is where you do your duty._

\--bolts forward as a sheen of white flickers over Noctis’ body and wraps his arms around him before dropping to his knees, dragging Noctis with him.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Noctis screeches, voice cracking. He claws at Gladio’s arms, and it stings, but Gladio grits his teeth and holds tight. “Let go!”

“You can’t fight them,” Gladio tells him roughly. 

“They’re _taking him_ ,” Noctis repeats frantically. “Prompto! _Prompto!_ ”

“You warp over there, you’re fucked,” Gladio reminds him. “Use elemancy and _he’s_ fucked. You can’t help him right now!”

Noctis struggles anyway, reaching futilely as Prompto and Ignis disappear, as the airship doors fold shut after the final stragglers. 

“ _No!_ ”

“I’m sorry,” Gladio whispers for all the good it does. 

He repeats himself as the fight drains from Noctis, still pinned down if only because Gladio himself barely has the energy left to stand. He repeats himself as the airship, blood-red in the morning light, hovers above them, then flies away, taking their friends with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> Gladio did me a real number here. I wanted to address a difficulty specific to him, especially the version of him that exists in this au, where he knows what his duty is and he wants to do it without a doubt, but so many factors make it difficult. Inexperience (theory vs practice), morals (one person vs many), etc. Sometimes you work really hard for something and it still hurts, that kind of thing. This chapter took too long to make but we did this for you, Gladio.
> 
> On the other hand, hey, new character! She's gonna make things fun in the future :D
> 
> Lastly, thank you so much for the continued patience with this :'D And your super awesome comments in the meantime. One of the most difficult parts of this is making sure all these character and relationship dynamics are coming across so that they're both true to source but also true to the story they're in now, and hearing that all the pieces are coming together to be enjoyable is really uplifting. The next chapter shouldn't take nearly so long to write seeing as most of it is already done, and I'm really looking forward to sharing the next few steps of the way!
> 
> Oh, and if you wanna see me ramble about the writing process and post little snippets of the wips, or you wanna holler at me, I have a tumblr at ultalumna :0


	14. fort vaullerey

Prompto wakes up. He does it slowly, reluctantly, and with no shortage of aches, but he wakes up. 

The ceiling and its faint yellow lights are unfamiliar. He knows this even without clarity, but he has to slog through whatever happened before he went under to figure out why it isn’t the ceiling he thought he’d be looking at.

He has a vague recollection of clawing at his eyes, complaining that the smoke was ruining his contacts, burning his eyes, when someone asked him what the problem was. That someone had evidently fixed the problem, leaving everything fuzzy but far less painful. That was nice. 

They’d fixed other problems too, he’s pretty sure. He feels heavy and sluggish, but what parts of himself he can see clearly are wrapped up, and there’s a thin tube stuck under his nose. There’s a straight-up _immobilizer_ on his right leg, preventing any kind of movement, which is… kind of nice, maybe. No pain there.

So, a hospital. Not the garrison facility, though. He knows that one. 

He turns his head, hoping for more clues, but a dark curtain surrounds the bed he’s laid out on, and all he can make out beyond it is the steady sounds of at least two people breathing.

So, a hospital--maybe--with a roommate or two. Because he’d been injured in the Festival of the Hunt. Thrown out of Ignis’ arms by--a bomb? Maybe? Something that sent both him and Ignis to the ground.

 _Ignis_.

Coughing on his knees, struggling to steady himself with a gash on his forehead, but still ready to try and stab the person that knelt down over Prompto until someone else grabbed him. _Crap_.

Prompto looks around again, swearing under his breath when the curtains don’t magically disappear and let him see if Ignis is anywhere nearby. He doesn’t know what _happened_ after that. How’d he get here?

“Ignis?” Prompto whispers. He means to call, but his throat is so dry that he can barely even croak. That one word alone is enough to send him into a coughing fit, and it feels like ages before he can take a deep breath without having to pause to hack up mucus. 

The curtain moves with a _swish_ on his right. He glances over, hoping for Ignis, and doesn’t quite manage to hide his disappointment when he sees a short woman in a simple white coat, her pale hair pinned back from her blue eyes, which seem to bore into him. The uncapped water bottle in her hand partially makes up for her unfamiliar identity, though.

“Here, take small sips,” she says, quiet but brisk as she holds the lip of the bottle to his lips and tips it carefully. 

Prompto manages a few sips without spilling them before she pulls the bottle back and sets it down somewhere behind the curtain. She returns and takes his jaw firmly between her fingers, tipping his head from side to side, squinting at him. 

“Any pain?” she asks, standing back with an expectant expression. 

Vaguely. Sort of. The longer Prompto is awake, the more aware he is of the aches across his whole body, but they’re dull. He shrugs. 

The woman reaches behind the curtain and returns with the water bottle, letting him have a few more sips. 

“Hunger?” she asks when she takes the bottle back again.

Hunger? For sure. Prompto has no idea what time it is or how long he’s been out. Being hungry is going to have to wait, though.

“Where am I?” he asks. Better than a whisper, still kind of pitiful. 

The--nurse?--doesn’t need him to repeat himself, though. “Fort Vaullerey Imperial Hospital.”

Prompto chokes on air, but the nurse must think it’s the smoke inhalation. Hopefully, anyway. She just waits for the fit to pass and offers a few more sips of water. 

“Why?” Prompto asks, narrowly avoiding another fit. He’s glad, at least, that the immobilizer is keeping him from jostling his knee.

He shouldn’t be here, though. He and Noctis always avoided the odd Magitek troops during a hunt, never got tied up in something they couldn’t handle. But now he’s here and--do they know how many of their Magitek troopers he shot? Do they know how many of their robots Noctis dismantled? Is that why he’s here?

Did they get Noctis, too?

The nurse looks at him like it’s obvious that he should be here. “Because you’re injured.” She shakes her head and tuts. “Daemons. But your wounds were minor; you’ll recover.”

“I--what?” Prompto glances around. Nothing but the curtain. Damn. The way she stares at him leaves him with a distinct sense of unease and there’s no getting away from it. “How did I… Am I, uh, stuck here?”

The nurse misinterprets his question entirely, but he can’t tell if she does it intentionally or not. 

“You should rest more, but do you need the washroom first?” she asks. “I can give you crutches. Or, if you aren’t confident with them, I can lift you into a chair.”

Prompto bites the side of his tongue. Not what he wanted, but, well… He does need a washroom. If she’s giving him the chance to move around, he might be able to find his stuff, or, even better, Ignis. Or maybe someone else he knows.

Anyone except Noctis. Not in here, an imperial fort.

“I know how to use crutches,” he informs the nurse.

She nods and dips away from his bedside, returning a moment later to help him slide out of bed and get acquainted with the crutches, which is also not something he really wanted. Finally, she pulls the curtain aside to give him space to maneuver, and Prompto tries to be inconspicuous as he scans the room.

He’s definitely not the only occupant in the medium-sized, windowless room; two of the other three cots are curtained off just like his. There are small stands between them, but they have no drawers and their surfaces are empty. He itches to peek beyond the curtains, but the nurse nudges him along, guiding him to the other end of the room to a wide door.

“I will be right here,” she says before shutting him in the washroom. 

“Thanks,” Prompto mutters to himself, half expecting the nurse to respond. 

He can’t help a shiver as silence settles in, blaming it on the slight chill held off only by the thin gown over his bandages. He hobbles toward the sink and its narrow mirror, and when he meets his reflection, he winces. He looks like garbage.

His right side is bandaged from shoulder to wrist, and he can feel more across his torso under the white gown. His left side is a little better, but only in the sense that he has ugly bruises and shallow scrapes there instead of deep cuts and burns. His cheeks are bruised, lips spotted with dry blood, eyes red, hair dirty and limp--a ghost that got scraped raw and dragged along the road. 

“Great Ramuh’s beard,” he sighs as he turns away from himself. 

All that, and then there’s his leg--all his progress with physical therapy, down the drain. It’ll take ages to recover. There’s no reason for him to be here the entire time, though, is there?

He hopes Ignis is okay.

He _really_ hopes Noctis and Gladio didn’t get caught up, too.

The nurse offers him no more answers when he finally emerges from the washroom, either. She just tuts again when she sees how damp he got his bandages in his attempt to clean his face and hair up a little, then leads him back to bed with a strict order to go back to sleep. 

Prompto doesn’t _want_ to go back to sleep. He wants to figure out who he’s rooming with, what happened to his team, what happened to Old Lestallum--

But he’s tired. So, so tired. He gets back to the bed, takes a few more sips of water, and then, before he can really press the nurse for answers, his body starts floating away from itself. 

 

\--

 

Some indeterminate amount of time later, he wakes up again. He doesn’t just ache this time--he must have had some painkillers running through him before, and they must be gone now because now he _hurts_. All over.

And he’s hungrier than ever.

And he needs the washroom again.

And he still feels uneasy, the curtains around him doing nothing to comfort him.

The crutches are still next to his bed, though. And just when Prompto manages to lift his arm to reach for them--a monumental effort all by itself--he hears something from beyond the curtain on his other side. Something tapping and sliding, a vaguely wet noise. 

Reluctant to draw the nurse’s attention again, Prompto manages a quiet, “Hello?”

The sounds stop. For a moment, there’s silence.

Then, a familiar, haggard voice responds, “Prompto?” 

Prompto gasps and tries unsuccessfully to heave himself upright. Fabric and curtains rustle hurriedly before the curtain on Prompto’s left moves aside, revealing Ignis. He’s a little lopsided, using the wall for support, and there are bandages scattered down his arms and on his forehead, but he’s alert and standing, looking down at Prompto with wide eyes. 

“You’re all right,” Ignis sighs with relief, dropping to sit down on the edge of Prompto’s bed. Prompto hisses as even that jostles him and sends a wave of pain through his injuries, and Ignis looks doubly as apologetic as he did relieved. “Apologies,” he says quickly, although he doesn’t move again. “Your wounds--your _leg_ \--”

“I’m okay,” Prompto assures him, trying not to speak too fast and aggravate his throat. “Mostly. And this is just an immobilizer; it’s totally fine! I mean--I’m alive, you’re alive. So, uh, could be worse.”

Ignis sighs again, carefully rubbing his fingers over his brow. “That it could. As it is, we’re both alert and… healthy, to a point. I have to wonder if the same can be said for others that might have been picked up, since it seems we’re the only ones in here.”

Prompto blinks and tries to peek around the curtain. “We are? I thought…”

“You thought what?” Ignis prompts, brow furrowed slightly. 

“When I woke up at first, I got crutches to get to the bathroom,” Prompto explains, pointing at the set on the other side of his bed. “When I was out of bed, I thought there were two others.”

Ignis slips off the bed and pulls the curtain further down, revealing the other side of the room to Prompto, where two cots sit unoccupied. No curtains, no rumpled bedding. 

“There was someone there, though,” Prompto insists.

Ignis shakes his head. “Not since then, apparently. It’s just us. Perhaps they were brought to another room.”

“You don’t think…”

What if they aren’t coming back?

Ignis returns to his own bed, sitting on the edge to face Prompto with a grim expression. “I take it you know where we are.”

“Vaullerey.”

Ignis hums. “It would _seem_ ,” he says, placing great stress on the words, “from what little information I was given, that Niflheim intervened on the grounds of preventing catastrophe. A peacekeeping mission as it were.”

Prompto sputters around his own breath. “What--seriously? You don’t believe that, do you?”

“Of course not,” Ignis retorts. “I have a minor concussion, not amnesia. The majority of the population doesn’t know that their Magitek Infantry tried to slaughter us before they staged their rescue, however, and until I have means of contacting Gladio again, I don’t know what the Crown City knows, either.”

That sounds… deep. Deeper than no food, no bathroom, down one leg Prompto can deal with at the moment. 

He stretches his arm across his bed toward Ignis. “Can you help me up? I need a toilet before literally anything else.”

Ignis glances toward the exit, and Prompto almost expects the nurse to materialize in front of it from that action alone, but she doesn’t. They get Prompto out of bed and back without intervention, and then Ignis reaches over for the stand next to his bed where three pudding cups rest next to a bottle of water, one empty, one half-eaten, one full. He passes the full cup to Prompto and settles down again.

“This is… very much the opposite of where I’d hoped to be when I set out here,” he says quietly as Prompto digs in.

“Sorry,” Prompto mumbles through a spoonful of pudding.

Ignis shakes his head and picks up his half-eaten pudding. “It’s no fault of yours.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think Noctis is here,” Prompto offers.

“What makes you so sure?” Ignis asks, although it’s written across his face that he wants it to be true.

Prompto shrugs. “I guess I just figured it’d be obvious by now. Either the building should be burning down or the Imperials should be gloating that they found him. He’s not, y’know, all that secretive about magic.”

Ignis smiles faintly. “I suppose I can hope for that. Regardless, just because I’ve wound up in a situation I didn’t count on doesn’t mean I can’t adapt to it. Whatever Niflheim’s intentions are here, I’ll find us a way out. Step one is recovering and gathering information.” 

Prompto nods along, and then they lapse into silence as they polish off their meager snacks. A single cup isn’t enough, but Prompto doesn’t want to summon the nurse again just yet. Instead, he picks at the subject of his overall unease.

“So, are we actually like… prisoners here?” 

“Officially? Not to my knowledge,” Ignis answers evenly. He points toward the exit with his plastic spoon. “The door, however, is locked, and I imagine it will remain so until they see fit to declare us healthy again. If we need something when a nurse isn’t already here, I was told that we’ll have to knock.”

Despite having his curiosity sated, Prompto isn’t relieved to have the answer. That sounds like being imprisoned. They really are stuck here with no idea of what’s going on beyond the door. He doesn’t even know the time of day, let alone the conditions of anyone or anything else. 

He lets out a slow breath. “Sorry for getting you wrapped up in this.”

Ignis blinks at him like he’s just grown horns. “You’re not responsible for this situation, Prompto. If anything, _I_ landed _you_ here.”

“I mean--I guess? But I still feel responsible. You said you were gonna back the others up and instead you got held up helping me. I should have stayed at the motel from the start.”

But he hadn't. He'd followed them away, then got too close, and then they both got blown up.

Judging by Ignis’ expression, Prompto might have a tail or fangs, too. “That’s the most--you were  _injured_ , Prompto. We both were. I wasn’t about to _abandon_ you.”

“I thought your priority was Noct, though.”

“It is, but until I have proof of the contrary then I have by no means failed my mission yet. Take responsibility if you must, Prompto, but don’t try to absolve me of it entirely.”

Prompto opens his mouth to respond, but quickly shuts it when the only sound he can find in him is a laugh.

Ignis catches the sound in the back of his throat anyway. “Did I say something funny?”

“Nothing,” Prompto says quickly. “Just--something I said to Noct. It sounded a lot like that.”

“Then you’ve had this conversation before,” Ignis says knowingly. “Do you need to rehash it with me or have you had your fill of it?”

Prompto snickers as some of the anxiety simmering under his skin subsides. “I’m good, dude. You got me there.”

“Good. Do you think you can eat more of these, then? One is even less filling than that argument.”

Prompto snorts. Leave it to Ignis to make their situation feel tolerable. 

“I’m starving, dude. Lay ‘em on me.”

He doesn’t know what’s coming to them, but all he can do now is lay in bed in this unfamiliar place. In the meantime… he really hopes Noctis isn’t in danger.

 

\--

 

There is darkness again. Heavy, deafening. It keeps him tethered in nothingness; it smothers him. There is nowhere to go, no weakness to tear free. And yet, he still reaches for it, fingers scrabbling blindly for the slightest fault.

The darkness sighs. He does not search for it.

The darkness presses in tighter, threatening to choke him in response. 

Noctis bares his teeth and snaps back at it. He can feel its grip weakening as he fights.

“Come now,” says the voice in the dark. “A child should stay in his bed when it’s dark.”

This is no dream--Noctis refuses to sleep  _here_.

“Oh?”

Something snaps through the darkness. It sighs again.

“The night is so dangerous,” it says, a mocking drone. 

Noctis fights, limbs stone-heavy and feather-light in turns. His arm comes free. Whatever this place is, he is getting  _out_.

The darkness presses in tighter, tangling him deeper in its web before it snaps away, strings pulled taut sliced away. Noctis freefalls.

“ _You_ should know that,” says the voice in the dark, faint but full of arrogance.

The echo follows him all the way down until his ribs meet earth, his fingers tangle in moss and leaves, and his cheek presses against grass.

“Noctis,” comes another voice, not so deep, so dark, so scornful.

Before him, on the forest path, wreathed in the grand canopy above and the light filtering through, stands the King. In one hand is a cane, supporting his braced leg. In the other hand is a sword made not of steel, but translucent crystal, sharp and glittering. His expression is at once urgent and steady.

“Can you stand, Noctis?” the King asks.

Noctis stands, ready to defend himself. 

The King’s expression is sorrowful. “No harm will come to you here, Noctis.”

“Really?” Noctis asks, doubtful but pleased to find his voice has power again.

The King nods once. “The entity that attempted to entrap you cannot reach you while I am here.”

“While you’re here,” Noctis repeats dubiously. Finally, he feels awake, in control, and with it comes his rage, his building impatience. “And I should trust you? Why _are_ you here? What do you  _want_ from me? Nothing like this ever happened before you started showing up!” 

“We have too little time to explain,” the King says seriously, unfazed by Noctis’ agitation. “You are in danger.”

“I’ve noticed,” Noctis deadpans. “But I’m not the one in trouble right now. So, are you gonna answer me or not? Are you here to help me or am I just going to have to find the way out of this place?” 

The King steps forward. He raises his sword and Noctis takes a half step back--but in the time it takes the King’s hand to reach his shoulder, the sword is gone, vanished in a shower of glimmering light. The weight of his hand on Noctis’ shoulder is light but warm, steady and firm. 

“It is my regret that I cannot help you more,” he says solemnly. “But you are not without power, nor the presence of those who will stand with you.”

What good does that do him here? Noctis means to ask, but he quickly finds that he cannot. 

The King is gone. The forest and the winding path, gone. Instead, he sees a flash of blue, of water, of a river.

A one-night camping trip, half a bucket of fish; Prompto knee-deep in the river, laughing as he resists the current.

The woods grow thick around him, wrapping him in a maze, a deep forest growing with the music of water rushing over the falls, through the rapids, guarding the tomb. 

The king’s glaive, frozen crystal scalding the palm of his hand.

Noctis gasps when he comes to, fingers digging deep into the dirt and moss. He’s on his knees, and the King has come down to one knee, too, one hand still grasping Noctis by the shoulder tightly.

“What--the hell was that?”

“You know the way,” the King tells him without answering the question. His voice echoes as Noctis struggles to make sense of his weighted limbs, the world dimming around him. “Go in the grace of the gods, and you will find answers. Walk tall, Noctis.”

\--

Gladio gives a muted “ _what the hell_ ” when Noctis bolts upright, struggling to catch his breath, every inhale a mouthful of ash. Noctis ignores him; his body is all tangled up still, arms and legs pinned, and he needs to get free.

He tosses the blanket to the floor before he realizes it’s a blanket. Gladio is there in the next second, kneeling on the floor next to the bed--one of the lower bunks in their quarters, Noctis notices. They’re in the garrison again.

“C’mon, Noct,” Gladio says evenly. “Breathe. You good?”

Noctis has to take a few more breaths before he has it in him to respond. “What happened?”

“You passed out; I had to carry you back,” Gladio explains with a sigh. “You had me going there for a bit with how long you were out; it’s almost six--in the _afternoon_.”

Noctis backtracks in his memories, putting the pieces together until he comes back to the bed underneath him, feeling like his bones are made of cement and his skin of paper. It aches to move and it takes more effort than it should, but he’s been in worse shape. He can still stand and take steps on his own.

Except, Gladio gives his shoulder one simple push and sends him back to the mattress on his ass.

“Whoa, there. Where do you think you’re going?”

“How fast can the Regalia go?” Noctis asks, glancing over himself. He needs a change of clothes before he does anything, but in the meantime…

Gladio sputters for a half-second. “What?”

“The Regalia--that’s what it’s called, right? How fast is the King’s car?”

Gladio looks at him like he’s a puzzle that doesn’t make sense. “How do you… know that?”

Because he always did, maybe. Since he very nearly became acquainted with the front end of it, at least. A screw shaken loose that he’s always been aware of even when he didn’t know where it was supposed to fit. 

He doesn’t know how--he just _knows_ that he knows now. The memory is his. His childish face reflected in the flawless paint before the door opens.

“Does it matter right now?” Noctis asks, standing again. “Is it fast or not? Answer the question!” 

“ _Of course_ it’s fast,” Gladio answers indignantly, like the answer should have been obvious all along, part and parcel with the name. 

“Great,” Noctis says before Gladio can get another word in. “Where are the keys--and where’s Ignis?”

Gladio doesn’t answer. Somehow, he manages to look smaller than he did a moment ago. A weight forms in Noctis’ ribs as he searches the room, already painfully aware that he won’t find Prompto. He remembers that much before he passed out. But he doesn’t know what became of Ignis, who’d promised to bring Prompto to safety and return.

But... if the Imperials got Prompto…

Noctis asks again, breaking the hollow silence, “Where’s Ignis?”

Gladio crosses his arms tightly, the feathers inked into his skin shifting over tense muscles. “The Niffs took him.”

“They took _both_ of them?” Noctis sits down again, aghast. Mortification set in and solidified in him long ago, the second he realized his desperate attempts to escape Gladio’s near stranglehold wouldn’t work. Now it weighs even more. 

He tries to remember, but he’d only seen Prompto through the haze of pain as his skull threatened to split. What condition had Ignis been in?

“Both of them,” Gladio confirms with a heavy voice. “And a lot of other hunters, too.”

Questions fill Noctis’ mind, and Gladio, clearly having been awake long before Noctis, must have at least some of the answers.

“Why? What are they doing?”

“Peacekeeping,” Gladio says with a sneer. “They only took people who weren’t gonna be able to get help before they got to ‘em, and they’re sticking around to ‘keep an eye on the situation,’ just in case the power fails again and unleashes more daemons on us.”

A pretty lie. It’s something of a comfort that Gladio doesn’t seem to believe it.

“Bullshit,” Noctis snaps. “Power failure my ass. They think people would risk the festival if they thought everything would go down? They must have--I don’t know--done something.”

“You’re not the only one who thinks so if that means anything.”

“Yeah? What else do you know?”

Gladio gives him an appraising look, then rolls his shoulders back and says, “I know the Imperials don’t have this place on full lock-down yet, but they’re holed up in Fort Vaullerey now and they’ve got roadblocks on the bridge. I know the only word out of there is the same broadcast about peacekeeping they’ve been airing all day; we’ve got nothing on how they’re treating the wounded.” He steps closer, practically looming. “I _also_ know there’s no getting in there without a fight, so whatever it is that you’ve got going through your head, you better spit it out or we’re not going anywhere.”

Noctis is almost annoyed. As much as he likes the visual, he has no intention of just barging into Fort Vaullerey for Prompto and Ignis. Not right now, anyway.

“There’s somewhere I need to go,” he explains. “Something’s coming. I don’t know _what_ yet, but there’s something I need to get on the other side of that base before it hits and the faster I get there, the better.”

Gladio looks down at him like he means to put a hole through him, brows pinched in thought. “Uh-huh,” he says carefully. “This place--what would it happen to be?”

“It’s on the other side of the Maidenwater.”

Noctis isn’t familiar with the woods there, only the river. Only the haven that he and Prompto had camped at. 

“Malmalam,” Gladio clarifies.

“Yeah, that’s--wait.” Noctis pauses, eyeing Gladio suspiciously. “You knew that already.”

Gladio leans back, uncrossing his arms to place his hands on his hips instead. “There’s someone coming to meet us--thing is, that’s where he’s headed. I didn’t get it this morning, and to be honest, I still don’t get it. I don’t see how that place is gonna help us here.”

Noctis props his elbows on his knees, everything running a mile a minute through his head. 

Not without power, nor the presence of others, the King had said. 

“I met him,” he says quietly. He licks his lips and they dry too fast. 

“Met… who, exactly?” Gladio asks warily.

_My--_

“The King,” Noctis answers. “When I passed out, I had this…”

Vision? Dream?

Were they ever dreams? 

Or were they meeting places? A place to trap him for whatever that voice in the dark, that _entity_ is? 

They’ve never made a lick of sense to him, and he can see that Gladio understands even less. But when Noctis describes that old man, his cane and sword, his voice, recognition dawns on Gladio’s face. Recognition and surprise. 

“You spoke with him,” he says, almost in awe. “Then, if His Majesty told you to go there… Damn. I might have an idea as to what he wants you to find.”

“What?”

“I can’t say for sure,” Gladio says, shaking his head. “You’ll have to check it out for yourself.”

“That’s real helpful, Gladio,” Noctis replies sarcastically. “Great contribution.”

“Hey, I’m doing my best here. I’m not the one tied to all this magic stuff; I’m just the Shield.”

The way he says it unsettles Noctis somewhat, the word hovering unevenly in the air.

“The shield,” he repeats.

“Yeah. With a capital, by the way.”

“What difference does it make?”

Gladio’s gaze turns down for a few seconds, flicking over his tattoos, the massive wings spread over his arms.

“Remember when we talked back in Lestallum?” he asks. “Our roles as retainers--Ignis as your advisor, me as your guard. That’s what I’m talking about.”

“A fancy name for bodyguard, then.”

“No, brat,” Gladio says sharply. “Every member of the royal family has a Shield, the one whose duty it is to protect them no matter the danger. That’s been my family’s duty for generations, and that’s what this tattoo, this eagle, symbolizes. It means I have what it takes, and that I’m ready to _do_ whatever it takes to keep _you_ safe.”

The slash across his brow is healed, Noctis realizes. Not entirely, but enough that it’s already scarring over. Gladio probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore; it had already been a second thought the moment he got it. It’s just another feature on his face, like the older one down his cheek.

“Even when I wasn’t there to protect?” Noctis asks tentatively.

That seems to snuff out some of the fire in Gladio’s eyes, but he still nods. 

“Yeah, even then.” He manages a low laugh. “You know, they actually gave me the _option_ of having it done, something no other Shield had. But I didn’t think about it for a second. That would have been too much like giving up and believing you were really gone.”

“You wanted the chance to come die for me in person,” Noctis says before he can think too deeply about it--about Gladio, a world away, waiting for him even though there was nothing to prove his survival at all.

“Six above,” Gladio snaps, almost snarling as he takes a step forward before he stops short. “Do you always turn into a complete ass when Prompto’s not around?”

Noctis buries his face in his hands, exhaling hard through his nose. “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m just--just trying to mind my own business and all of a sudden--” he laughs, trying to break the edge in his voice, but it comes out too high-pitched. “--the empire’s busting in, my boyfriend is going through who knows what while I’m on my ass and, oh, yeah, someone’s ready to _die for me_.”

It’s too much, everything looming too close. It's an overwhelming wave threatening to drown him, and Prompto isn't here to hang on to.

He doesn’t look up through the silence that stretches out between them. He’s not sure he can handle whatever face Gladio is making at him. 

Seconds tick by before Gladio scoffs. “I didn’t say that,” he says. It almost sounds like he’s smiling. “I mean, come on. What good is a dead bodyguard gonna do you? Shit all, that’s what. So, you can do us both a favour and quit worrying about that because I’m not dying any time soon.”

How does he know? Noctis almost asks. Is he a seer on top of everything else?

“And as for the rest of that… That’s what we’re headed to Malmalam for, isn’t it? We go there, get the goods, come back, bust our team outta jail. All I’m trying to say is that whatever happens on the way, you’re gonna make it through because I’m gonna be there to protect you--because that’s what I’ve been trained to do.”

Noctis peeks through his fingers carefully. Gladio is all but dripping overconfidence, larger than life with his arms crossed, the eagle’s wings stark against his skin, unblemished by all the wounds he racked up since the beginning of the festival.

“Besides,” he adds, shrugging one shoulder. “I kept you alive last night, didn’t I?”

Noctis could give him that. It’s a small comfort, his confidence about the whole situation. Instead, he sits up and asks, “That’s why you picked me, then? Even though we had a team. You let them grab _Ignis_ , too.”

Gladio shuts his eyes for a few seconds, shaking his head minutely. “You really _don’t_ know how to be on your own,” he mutters. Then, with an unyielding gaze, “ _Yes_. That’s why I stopped you from being an all-out idiot. But as long as you keep your cool, we _will_ get them back. Prompto’s gonna be fine. And Ignis?” He almost laughs. “Don’t worry about Ignis; he’s more than tough enough to handle shit over there. And that’s another thing--we get one scratch on the Regalia and he’ll have my head. We’re taking your car.”

Noctis scowls up at him. “I said we need to move fast, remember?”

“And I said you need to keep your cool,” Gladio counters. He leans down and taps the side of Noctis’ head. “Stop and think for a second, here. The fastest way across the river still means skirting around an Imperial stronghold. A car like the Regalia is gonna single us out in no time. You following?”

Reluctantly, Noctis nods. His Vixen is starting to really show its age, but it’s also several times more inconspicuous than the Regalia. It’ll be slower, but safer.

“Fine,” he concedes. He takes another deep breath for good measure. Gladio’s right--he’s got no business slipping out of control now, especially after he passed out again.

He has to be more careful, has to let Gladio do his job. He has to trust that Prompto and Ignis will keep themselves safe. He can do that.

Prompto will be strong.

“Get ready to go, then,” Noctis says firmly as he stands again. “There’s a haven near the Maidenwater that we can hit before nightfall. We’ll meet your friend, and then, tomorrow, we’ll see what this is all about.”

Gladio looks like he wants to argue somehow, but Noctis brushes past him to reach his locker. As he pulls out some new clothing, he hears Gladio murmur under his breath, “About as cool-headed as we’re gonna get, huh.”

Just about, yeah.

 

\--

 

There _is_ a cafeteria, as it turns out, and they _are_ allowed to visit it.

For a short time, just long enough to eat their dinner, and under the supervision of Weiss.

Ignis had asked for their nurse’s name and she had given it in much the same way books give Prompto their price stickers--peeling unevenly and reluctantly at every turn. Knowing it doesn’t ease the disquieting aura Prompto gets off of her. 

The silver lining is that she escorts them through old corridors and past many guards to the cafeteria, but she doesn’t follow them far beyond the doors. Instead, she takes up waiting next to what can only be a small gathering of other nurses supervising everyone else scattered at old tables throughout the hall.

Prompto scans the small crowd of hunters almost frantically. He can’t be sure, but he doesn’t see anyone that looks like Noctis or Gladio in the blurred figures around him. They aren’t here.

Or, they’re too bad off to be out of bed. 

Prompto shoves that thought away as Ignis comes to a stop beside him. 

“What is it?” he asks, squinting up at Ignis.

Ignis removes his glasses to wipe them off for the third time since Weiss returned them to him an hour ago, grimacing at the cracks running through one lens. After sliding them on again, he says, “I believe I recognize that hunter.”

Ignis guides him to a table next to a pillar, where only one figure sits. Up close, it takes Prompto another few seconds to recognize her under the eyepatch and the sling around her left arm. 

“I’ll be damned,” Vesta says roughly as she spots Prompto. “You’re in here, too, kid? And… Ignis, right?”

“That’s right,” Ignis says as he tugs a chair out for Prompto to lower himself into. 

“Vesta,” Prompto says, stuck somewhere between glad and dismayed. She doesn’t look all that bad, eyepatch aside, but she’s still here. And alone. “Oh no--what happened to Nan?”

Vesta waves his concern away. “Sent her on a ride back to the garrison. She’ll be fine with Dave looking after her. You, though. You’re a mess, Prompto.” Her expression drops as she looks over him, lips pressed tight as she leans toward him over her half-eaten meal. “You were with Noctis, weren’t you? Where…”

“He’s not here,” Prompto says quickly, shaking his head. “Not that we’ve seen, anyway. He was… fine, before.”

Vesta sits back with a low sigh. “I’ll have to take your word for it; can’t exactly ask anyone at the garrison right now.” Her eyes flick up to Ignis. “And what about you? Obviously, you got in contact with Noct, but where’s the guy you were with?”

“Still with Noctis, I hope,” Ignis replies. “Until we know more about what’s going on, that’s about as much as we can manage. Shall I get us dinner, Prompto?”

“Please,” Prompto says. “I’m still so hungry.”

“I’ll only be a moment,” Ignis says, withdrawing toward the counter on the other side of the hall where the bland scent of food is wafting from.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Vesta turns a serious look on Prompto and asks in a low voice, “Who is he, Prompto?”

“You met him before, didn’t you?” Prompto asks. That’s what he’d heard from Noctis, and Gladio in turn. 

“Yeah. They knew his name and said they knew his family, but…” She shakes her head. “Didn’t add up to me then, and it _really_ doesn’t now. Funny how it takes a man getting beat up to notice how young he actually is. But it looks like you know him, so--what’s his deal?”

Prompto worries at his lip. “It’s… a little complicated.”

“Is it.” 

Vesta’s gaze is keen, even with one eye. Prompto fractures in seconds. 

He wouldn’t have lasted long, anyway. This is the first time he’s seen Vesta since everything started going sideways, and she’s known him and Noctis for _years_.

He glances around, but the hunters nearby are more concerned with their meals and each other than their whispered conversation. The nurses are lingering, still, but way out of earshot. 

At a loss as to how to explain anything that’s happened in the last--shit--couple weeks, he asks quietly, “Did you know? About Noct--and where he came from. Did you know?”

_Did you know he’s royalty?_

For a few long seconds, Vesta is silent. Then, she closes her eye, covering it, too, with her hand.

“Holy shit,” Prompto says, nearly wheezing as understanding dawns on him. “You _knew_ he was a--”

“ _Shh!_ ” Vesta cuts him off swiftly, severely. She glances around, then softens almost as quickly as she’d hardened, leaning heavily on her good elbow. She continues after a few seconds, so softly that Prompto has to lean closer to hear, “Here’s what I knew. His dad and I… We were hunting near Wennath. We found some men on the way back to town and whoever they were... the daemons had gotten the best of them.”

Then, Noctis really was found after a daemon attack? Prompto wants to ask, but his tongue won’t work. Not while Vesta’s still talking.

“There was one left in that massacre, though,” she says, shaking her head regretfully. “But this was a long time ago, Prompto. Roman wasn’t on top of his game yet and we didn’t have the gil for the kind of stuff that woulda saved that man’s life. We only got one thing out of him. Wanna know what it was?”

Prompto nods numbly, the world dimmed to just them. 

“Noctis… must be protected,” Vesta answers. She shakes her head and gestures vaguely between them. “And what the hell were we supposed to do with that except look at this kid he had hidden in his coat and say, 'well, shit?'”

“So you--really? This whole time?” Prompto stutters. Vesta knew. Noctis’ parents knew.

Noctis shouldn’t have been here. And yet--

“Then and there?” Vesta asks wryly. “No. More than one kid named Noctis in the kingdom, Prom. Especially these days. But back then--no, not for a while. It was weeks before the news came out that… that he was gone. And until then? Until he started showing what he could do? It was obvious to us that Noct himself didn’t know anything. He was just a _kid_ with nothing left who needed to be protected from whatever it was that brought him out here.” 

Noctis' mom and dad, they didn’t kidnap him. Prompto almost shudders, weightless with the realization. They just… found a scared kid and took him in, kept him safe for years in Lestallum. They weren’t the ones that hurt him

“He grew up, though,” Prompto murmurs. “And nobody ever said anything?”

“If Roman and Valya were still alive…” Vesta looks and sounds broken, more run-down by her injuries than Prompto ever saw he years ago whenever she visited Noctis’ family. “They would have told him when they thought he was old enough. They wanted to less and less--they _raised_ him, after all--but I like to think they would have done the right thing.”

But they’re not around anymore. For two years, ever since the explosion at the powerplant that shook Lestallum and took Noctis’ parents away, it’s just been Noctis, lost at sea, and Vesta, keeping secrets.   

“What about you?” Prompto asks. “ _You_ still knew.”

Vesta shrugs. “Don’t think I could ever find the words. And do you think he would have listened to me?” 

Prompto almost laughs--because Noctis almost certainly wouldn’t have. He didn’t even believe Ignis and Gladio at first.

“You know he wasn’t just upset,” Vesta says gently, “he was angry, too.”

Grieving, badly. Trying to cut through it with a sword and collection of techniques he learned from his old man. Reckless as hell because why should he worry about himself when he was the one who called his dad back to town when the plant needed hunters? 

He’s been better lately, even though Prompto had worried that the damages from the year before would be irreparable. He likes to think he helped, somehow, despite the fact that he didn’t know what _to do_ about that awful grief--despite the fact that Noctis is still angry and Prompto still wishes he could do more. 

“Wouldn’t do any good now, anyway,” Vesta says after a long pause. She nods upward. “That’s what he’s here for, isn’t it?”

Prompto jumps as a pair of trays are set down on the table. The chair next to him skids against the floor before Ignis sits down in it, folding his hands neatly over each other. How long had he been there, listening?

“I take it I’ve missed a fair amount of the conversation,” Ignis says politely if not a little stiff. Prompto can’t tell if he’s angry about what he overheard, but it wouldn’t be shocking news.

“Nothing that would surprise you, I don’t think,” Vesta drawls. 

“He knew Noct,” Prompto explains to her, hoping she’ll believe Ignis isn’t actually a threat. “Y’know, when they were kids.”

“And she knew of his past,” Ignis says.

Vesta’s eye flicks between them. After a quiet moment, she and says to them slowly, “Look, done is done. Whatever could have happened didn’t, and what matters is the here and now.” She turns her chin down and closes her eye, pressing her fingers against her collar.

“Are you okay?” Prompto asks quickly. He can see a large bruise marring her collarbone, deep and painful looking. 

Vesta looks back at him with a slanting smile. “A prayer to old man Ramuh. Here’s hoping he’ll do us a favour and keep that kid from doing something stupid. He’s probably already going nuts with you stuck in here.”

Ignis’ sigh is almost imperceptible. Prompto doesn’t think Vesta even catches it. “You should eat, Prompto. If you at least appear fed, it’ll be one less reason for him to go to war.”

Prompto squints down at the tray before him, hoping that some clarity will make it seem more appetizing. It doesn’t. He glances back at Ignis and Vesta, but they don’t seem to be paying each other or the taste of their food much mind. 

“It’s fine,” Vesta says, taking a spoonful of what looks like flavourless oatmeal into her mouth as if to prove it. “Straight nutrition doesn’t necessarily look good.”

“I guess,” Prompto agrees, taking the spoon on the side of the tray.

“We can hardly recover our strength on empty stomachs, either,” Ignis adds. “Here and now, that’s what we need if we’re to do anything about this any time soon.”

Prompto takes a bite of the oatmeal. He can’t tell if the way his throat doesn’t seem to want to swallow it is worse than the silence that falls over the table, or if they’re both just feeding into each other and the atmosphere, the eyes of Weiss and the other nurses all over them, to make one of the most uncomfortable meals he’s ever had. 

Ignis is definitely unhappy--not that anyone is really happy to begin with--but he doesn’t say anything about it, trying as he is to focus on the present. Prompto tries his best to do the same, but there isn’t much that he can gather about what’s going on around them without his contacts. The best he can catch are the hushed conversations of other… patients. 

Then, partway through his meal, the even, snapping click of heels against the tile floor that he doesn’t realize is approaching their table until Vesta squares her shoulders, and Ignis stiffens in response. 

“Thought I recognized your faces,” says a vaguely familiar voice. 

Prompto looks up and finds a tall silver-haired woman in black armour leaning against the pillar next to the table. He wracks his memory for her name, hesitant to speak otherwise. She’d told them, hadn’t she?

She clicks her tongue at them. “You didn’t get out when I told you to, I see.”

“Commodore Highwind,” Ignis greets with the kind of iron-clad civility he must greet all his enemies with. “We were in the middle of doing so before your men brought us here.”

“Looked like it, too,” Highwind says with a dismissive hum. Her eyes seem to gloss right over him as she jerks her chin toward Prompto. “Hey, blondie, sorry to cut this short, but you’re coming with me.”

The tension lingering over the table disappears, replaced by an entirely different sort of tension as Ignis, seated between her and Prompto, takes Prompto’s bruised elbow hard enough that he has to bite back a wince, and Vesta straight-up growls, “What for?”

“That’s my business,” Highwind replies smoothly. She gestures to Prompto’s crutches. “Come on, up you get.”

Prompto makes an aborted motion toward the crutches, overcome with a sudden, deep paranoia. He shouldn’t have mentioned Noctis. He never said _prince_ \--Vesta had cut him off just in time--but what if they didn’t even need that much? What if Weiss was listening the whole time and he just gave everything away and now the Commodore’s here to interrogate him--

“Look, I’m not here to interrogate him,” she says as if sensing his thoughts. Or maybe she can just see the fear on his face. “You’re here because you were all injured, not because we want to make it worse. If you want it to be difficult, though, I’ll just have you escorted out.”

The Commodore nods over her shoulder, where even Prompto can see that Weiss has broken away from her colleagues. She hasn’t approached more than a few paces, but she’s definitely ready to.

“He’s just gonna have a chat with someone, anyway,” Highwind continues. “And then it’s right back to bed. Are you going to get up or not?”

She makes a simple chat sound dangerous. Prompto doesn’t really want to go either way, but…

“Hey,” he whispers to Ignis. “I can fill you in after.” Louder, he adds, “It’s probably not a big deal.”

Ignis doesn’t look at all convinced. Prompto wouldn’t have believed himself, either, to be honest. But his grip loosens. 

“If we have your word,” he says carefully to the Commodore. 

“On my honour,” she replies curtly. “I won’t touch a hair on his head.”

Prompto reaches for his crutches and eases himself out of his chair. The Commodore steps away from the pillar, ready to lead him away. 

“Be careful, kid,” Vesta says softly.

Prompto tries to give her and Ignis a reassuring smile. “I guess I’ll, uh, see you guys later.”

Hopefully, anyway.

He follows Commodore Highwind past Weiss, past the guards stationed outside the cafeteria, past all the others throughout the fort, and hopes that her honour is something he can believe.

He prays to old man Ramuh that nothing bad happened to the hunter that had shared the room with him and Ignis and that the same will go for him. 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's he going to chat with... :)c
> 
> I had fun writing Noctis in this chapter with the only thing keeping him from totally losing his marbles is that he more or less woke up with a pre-prepped plan in his head that he can act on. How will he and Prompto do without the other in the future...
> 
> And usually, I would have waited to post this chapter, but as someone who doesn't like hanging for long on cliffhangers, I couldn't do the same with my own fic :0 Also you all deserve it. I absolutely loved your comments on the last chapter and I hope this one answers a few questions and concerns about our boys :D Thanks for reading!


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